


built this ship (to wreck)

by gracequills



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Alternative Universe - Kingdom, Blackmail, Blood and Injury, Childhood Friends, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Dream Smp, Execution, Friends to Lovers, Historical Inaccuracy, Injury Recovery, Kidnapping, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Mutual Pining, Pirates, Royalty, Swordfighting, They/Them Pronouns for Eret (Video Blogging RPF), Vomiting, aka the overly self indulgent dnf pirate au, guys i managed to sneak sbi in here guys are you proud of me, other fun pirate shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27608177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracequills/pseuds/gracequills
Summary: When George is kidnapped by the same pirates that have been a thorn in Dream’s side for years, Dream sets out to rescue his best friend amidst a backdrop of political machinations, blackmail, and betrayal. But Dream may not be ready for the feelings that threaten to drag him—and George—down into the dark.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 137
Kudos: 380





	1. Recollection

**Author's Note:**

> title is from “ship to wreck” by florence and the machine
> 
> hello folks! welcome to this absolute monster of a pirate au. this is my first dnf fic so please be nice. you'd better sit down and buckle up for absolute MAD TIMES ahead :)) rating is due to language and general pirate-y stuff. you know the drill. i will try to put content warnings in chapter notes if there's anything super sus.
> 
> a HUGE thank-you to @twtbea on twitter for her help with this au!! go follow her and show her some love. she's the one who has to put up with my crazy ass rants AND she's the one beta reading, so. shout out to bea <3 ily man
> 
> uhhh i think that's about it. without further ado, let's get this show on the road!! <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Wilbur fucks Dream over, Schlatt absolutely loses his shit, and George has a rather intimate conversation with his best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> full disclaimer: i!! have!! no!! idea!! how!! to!! write!! swordfights!! i pulled most of the fight stuff from my knowledge of lightsaber combat lol. cw for this chapter includes discussion of death/hanging/general execution stuff
> 
> beta read by @twtbea on twitter!! go say hi <3

The sky that vaunts above the capital city is startlingly bright grey for this time of the season, and the sun seems like she’s beginning to peek through the last few clouds that conceal her. The mist that’s been rolling in all day settles around the city like a well-worn blanket, stifling but not yet thick enough to obscure anybody’s vision. The warmth in the air—a ghost-like touch of humidity—promises a beautiful sunny day for tomorrow.

It’s a pity these two pirates won’t be around to see it.

The mist settles around him as Dream stares, watching the proceedings in the square down below. He’s perched uncomfortably on top of one of the city battlements. He should probably be down there, too, but he can’t bring himself to care. 

The weather is far more reflective of his mood than it should be. He should feel  _ happy,  _ goddamnit it. 

_ Isn’t this what I’ve been working for?  _ he thinks as he watches the crowd of spectators file into place. The gallows, built hastily in the midst of the square, sticks out like a sore thumb among this many people. Dream avoids the collective gaze of the royal box—including the King—which he can feel prickling into his skin. He shifts, wishing his uniform coat wasn’t so fucking itchy.

He should feel invincible. All-powerful.

Instead, he just feels numb, despite the fact that the crew of the  _ L’manburg  _ has been a constant pain in his side for the last two years, at least. Despite the fact that Wilbur Soot and his First Mate, a boy of no more than sixteen, are now  _ his _ , fair and square.

And now he finally has them in custody, along with their stupid ship. 

Maybe it’s reluctance darkening his mood. He and Wilbur had been  _ friends  _ once, back before the other man had defected from the Navy. Dream’s memories of Wilbur are marked by a wry smile, unruly brown hair, and a sharp tongue that had gotten them into so much more trouble than they’d needed. A kind heart hidden underneath a mask of steel and mischief.

Wilbur is not smiling today. When he’s led from the dungeons and emerges in the sunlight, his First Mate at his side, he sets his lips in a grim line. Several of Dream’s lieutenant admirals—men who are  _ far  _ too high up the food chain to be doing this for any other reason than pure spite—clap him once again in irons. The sound of chains clinking attracts the attention of the crowd, and Dream watches as every onlooker turns at once to watch the prisoners’ entrance.

It’s like a wave of uncomfortable silence and discontent washes over the audience, all at once. The square goes suddenly quiet, watching. Waiting.

Several of them frown when they see the kid at Wilbur’s side. He’s the same height as his Captain, but his age is apparent in the lines of his face, the brightness in his eyes. And, of course, when he opens his mouth to protest as the redcoats bind his hands behind his back in chains and push him forward.

“Would you fucking watch it?! I can walk on my own, bitch boy!” His voice carries across the courtyard, and there are a few gasps from the crowd at the coarseness of Tommy’s language. Dream doesn’t blink.

He slides off the battlement, back onto the wall, and creeps back in the direction of the stairs. His footsteps are barely audible; Dream has had lots of practice at being quiet. 

Tommy keeps whining as Dream slips down the stone stairs and into the square. “Is this really necessary?” he gripes, and Dream watches as the redcoats on either side of him push him forward, a step behind Wilbur. Wilbur, who just looks bored with it all, straightens his shoulders and sends Tommy a chilling look, which the younger boy ignores. “Why don’t we all just sit down, have a cup of tea,  _ talk  _ about this?!” A note of desperation seeps into his voice as he pleads with the soldiers.

Dream keeps moving, making his way through the crowd. He mutters, “Excuse me,” underneath his breath a few times, but people are disinclined to let him pass. He can feel the King’s gaze on him, heavy and unyielding, as he makes his way toward the front of the crowd where he’s supposed to be right now.

Sometimes, it all gets a bit too much for him. Sometimes, he needs his space.

And sometimes… sometimes, the King sees that as a threat. The man’s eyes are heavy on the back of Dream’s neck—Dream feels as if he’s being weighed down by the King’s gaze. He resists the urge to crumple underneath the force of Schlatt’s glare and instead shuffles towards the group of royal advisors, courtiers, and officials that he’s meant to stand with.

“Dream!” comes a voice from out of nowhere, and Dream stiffens before he realizes who has spoken: a man on his right side, gazing up at him expectantly from underneath a mop of brown hair.  _ George. _

Every bit of tension flows out of Dream’s body and his face lights up in a brilliant grin as he claps his friend on the shoulder. “George!” he says, squeezing George’s shoulder. “I—I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

George shrugs apologetically with a glance over at his father—one of Schlatt’s many throwaway Lords, even though the King is probably half the man’s age. “Neither did I,” he says, and he grabs onto Dream’s forearm like he’s lost at sea, trying to keep himself afloat. Dream’s stomach flutters at the touch, like the waves are tossing him about.

He’s nervous. That’s all. Nothing more. It’s not like he’s insanely in love with his best friend or anything. That would put a real damper on the afternoon.

“I saved a spot for you,” George says, and he pulls Dream back into the crowd. Thankfully, George had the good sense to stay far, far away from the King, and Dream relaxes when they move out of Schlatt’s eyesight. He swears the man can read minds. “You’re not participating?”

Unfortunately for Dream, George’s spot is still far too close to the gallows for comfort. Dream takes one look at the mutiny in Wilbur’s eyes as the soldiers march him and Tommy forward and blanches. “Uh… no,” he says, stumbling over his words and taking great pains to avoid Wilbur’s gaze. “No. It’s out of my jurisdiction now.”

George scoffs. “Bullshit,” he says vehemently, and affection curls up tightly in Dream’s stomach. “You caught them. You should be able to decide what to do with them.”

It’s Dream’s turn to shrug. “I wish, but there’s not much room for punishment when it comes to pirates… except a short drop and sudden stop.” He mimes the motion of being hanged, drawing his hand across his neck and pulling it straight up. George grimaces.

“Don’t be vulgar.”

Irritation stirs in Dream’s gut. He’s keenly aware of the insurmountable void that stretches between them once again. George, for all his technical military skill and tactical genius, has never been in a true naval battle. He’s never seen a man die in front of him. He’s only heard stories, tales of death and valor.

It’s not the same. It will never be the same.

Sometimes, that gap between them draws nearer, but other times, like today, it feels like Dream is staring across a raging, uncrossable sea at George on the other side.

The waves threaten to pull him under—it’s all too much, all at once. “I’m not,” Dream says, doing his best not to choke out the words. George’s brow furrows. Before he can say anything else, Dream points at the gallows and says, “They’re starting.”

Sure enough, Wilbur and Tommy have been pushed forward, finally in front of the crowd. Their footsteps echo against the courtyard’s walls when they stumble up the wooden steps. Tommy does his best to resist, going limp in the admiral’s arms. With a snarl of frustration, the man throws Tommy onto the floor with a sickening  _ crack.  _ The crowd gasps.

Dream watches as Wilbur’s cool demeanor cracks. He’s close enough to see the way Wilbur’s fists clench behind his back, the telltale quirk of his lips. Wilbur’s eyes flash with cold rage, but all he says is, “Tommy? Tommy, are you alright?”

Tommy groans and picks himself up from the floor, as best as he can with his hands still bound behind his back. “Fucking fantastic, Will.”

“Ladies and gentlemen!” calls a Navy official from the front of the courtyard. Dream doesn’t recognize him; he thinks the man is probably one of Schlatt’s new lackeys. “We are gathered here today to witness the execution of these two men for their crimes against the King.”

Wilbur snorts as the two admirals move forward. Dream watches Tommy grimace when the noose is pulled down and wrapped around his neck, definitely too tight for comfort. 

The official pulls a piece of parchment out of his pocket, and he clears his throat, gesturing for silence from the crowd. “‘Wilbur Soot,’” he reads, “‘be it known that—‘“ 

“ _ Captain, _ ” Wilbur calls. Dream almost chokes at the look on the official’s face. “ _ Captain _ Wilbur Soot.” 

Dream feels rather than sees George grin.

The man does not correct himself. “‘That you have been sentenced to death for your plentiful and willful commission of crimes against the Crown and country. Said crimes including piracy—‘“ 

“No shit,” Tommy says. Dream fidgets and chances another look at George, who looks as though he is enjoying himself.

“‘—smuggling, arson, kidnapping, looting, poaching, pilfering, sailing under false colors, depravity, impersonating a government official—‘"

“Wow, you’ve been busy,” Tommy quips to Will, who grins and spreads his hands as much as he is able to.

“You know me. Can’t sit still.” 

“'—and general lawlessness,’” the man finishes with a sigh. Wilbur looks darkly satisfied—his brown hair ruffles in the wind, long and unruly. With the mist sheathing him, blurring his edges, he looks like something straight out of one of Dream’s nightmares. “For these crimes, you have been sentenced to hang by the neck until dead. God rest your soul.” 

At those words, Wilbur’s gaze cuts downward, burning straight into Dream’s face like frostbite.  _ You did this,  _ his expression seems to sneer.  _ This is your fault. _

Dream resists the urge to shrink back and instead meets Wilbur’s stare head-on.

The official coughs, breaking the tense standoff, and returns to his parchment. “And as for your First Mate—”

Tommy bristles. “What about me?”

George leans closer into Dream as the official starts back up with his spiel again, brushing shoulders with the other man and effectively distracting him from the proceedings. “You didn’t tell me your archnemesis was a child.”

Dream laughs, shallow. “He’s  _ not _ my archnemesis.”

“I’m disappointed in you, Dream,” George says teasingly in that voice which never fails to make Dream’s insides twist. “Your letters had no detail.”

_ Right— _ his letters. The ones he’d pored over while on campaign, writing and rewriting every word until he’d been satisfied with the end result. His only contact with George for the two longest fucking years of his life.

“You really want me to write you letters filled with details about other guys?” Dream quips instead of saying what he actually wants to say, which is,  _ you don’t want to know _ . George opens his mouth to answer, so Dream adds, “Please don’t say yes.”

George throws his head back and laughs. The sound warms Dream’s insides. “Rude!”

“Quiet!” This last interjection comes from an elderly woman standing at Dream’s elbow. She fixes them both with a glare that could melt skin and mouths  _ Pay attention. _

Cheeks burning, Dream turns back to the proceedings. It’s a good thing he did; when he refocuses, Tommy is currently engaged in a vicious argument with the Navy official. The man splutters, halfway through Tommy’s list of crimes. “‘—crimes against the crown, including but not limited to: piracy, smuggling, arson—‘“

“Hey!” Tommy yells, causing Dream to roll his eyes. The people in the front row around them groan, clearly already tired of Tommy’s smart mouth. George turns his laugh into a strangled cough when Tommy calls, “You! Dream!”

Dream starts, his eyes meeting Tommy’s. The boy is staring straight down at him, clearly angry. “You just made that one up! When have I ever committed arson, you fucker?!”

It takes Dream a second to recover his composure as he steps forward. The crowd’s eyes are on  _ him  _ now. He fucking hates it. “Nevis,” he replies evenly, pitching his voice to carry, because he is somehow cursed with encyclopedic knowledge of every crime that Tommy has ever committed. “Two years ago. You burned down a pub called the Hog’s Hindquarters?” 

Tommy’s eyes widen and he winces. Evidently, the memory has come back in full force. Dream remembers that day in a haze of smoke, crazed laughter, and a thrilling chase across the seas. “Fair enough,” Tommy calls back down, and he stands silently through the rest of the official’s spiel. Dream returns to George’s side, flushed and unused to the attention.

“‘—For these crimes, you have been sentenced to hang by the neck until dead.’” The man rips the parchment in half suddenly, and the sound echoes throughout the courtyard, foreboding and awful. “May God rest your soul.”

A look passes between Tommy and Wilbur that Dream can’t quite parse. It makes him tense, his eyes dancing across the scene before him. 

He doesn’t realize he’s stepped forward to speak again until he’s saying, “Any last words?” The icy anger that has been dancing underneath Dream’s skin this entire time is finally audible in his voice. George shoots him a confused look which somehow hurts more than Wilbur’s glare.

Wilbur leans forward carefully, still holding Dream’s gaze, and growls, “Fuck the King.”

The crowd goes absolutely  _ insane  _ in less than two seconds. Dream grimaces as the courtyard is filled with shouts and jeers and even a couple of death threats to boot. The Navy official holding court tries in vain to quiet the crowd.

Schlatt seems to be taking the entire thing in stride. When Dream glances back over his shoulder at the King, he’s staring straight ahead, a small smile gracing his lips. The crowd’s obvious outrage at the statement evidently fuels Schlatt’s ego, and if there are a few people who seem to silently agree with Wilbur, well… the King doesn’t appear to pay them any mind.

The outrage continues. Finally, frustrated with it all, Dream holds up a hand and yells, “ _ Silence!” _

It works better than he thought it would. Taken aback by the sudden outrage from an otherwise calm man, most of the onlookers quiet down immediately.  _ So much for not getting involved,  _ Dream thinks wryly.

“Aw, Dream,” Wilbur says, the corner of his lips quirking up in a smirk. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“I think you’ve said quite enough,” Dream says. He tries not to snap the words, but there is definitely an edge to them. “Tommy? Any last words?”

Tommy’s glare is red-hot where Wilbur’s is cold, burning Dream all over. He leans down as far as he can go, eyes narrowed. “Dream,” he says, voice surprisingly level despite the emotion in his eyes. Beside him, Wilbur sighs. “I mean this in the nicest possible way, but you… You fucked up. You fucked up  _ big time.” _

Dream feels his gaze harden, and he nods sharply to the redcoat standing at the side of the gallows.  _ The hangman.  _ This isn’t technically his job, not anymore, but fuck it. Tommy has goaded him into being the bad guy once again. 

“Long live the King!” Dream calls, and the audience picks up his cheer, echoing louder and louder. When he turns to face George, who looks a little too shocked at Dream’s apparent cruelty, three things happen in quick succession.

One—the hangman pulls the lever. Dream’s head snaps back to watch as the floor beneath Tommy and Wilbur shudders, then starts to give way. There’s a moment of  _ something— _ trepidation, maybe? guilt?—where Dream thinks,  _ oh God. I just sentenced a sixteen-year-old to death, _ before he hears  _ thwap, thwap. _ Two sounds.

Two—the arrows pierce through the ropes as if they’d never been there. Without the support of the noose or the floor, Tommy and Wilbur fall straight through the trapdoor and hit the ground roughly. Wilbur, who was clearly ready for it, rolls as soon as he makes contact. Tommy isn’t so lucky—he manages to flop over onto his back, groaning as he tries to regain his breath.

Three—the Navy reacts. Dream starts to curse and pull his sword from its sheath. He throws himself forward, fighting against the screaming and fleeing crowd, in an attempt to stop their escape. To his surprise, George is right behind him with his own sword.

“What are you doing?!” Dream exclaims. George stays in step with him easily, which is suspicious, as the other man has never seen a day of proper combat in his life. “Get back to the Palace!”

“Fuck off, Dream,” George growls, angrier than Dream has ever seen him. Since it would take precious energy to fight with George, and the other man seems to have made up his mind, Dream shrugs and keeps running.

Unfortunately, it seems that whoever shot the arrows has brought reinforcements. Dream curses when he sees the men in dark blue coats appear like apparitions out of the mist.  _ L’manburg’s crew.  _ Even captainless and shipless, they fight with tooth and nail, downing redcoat after redcoat. Soon enough, the courtyard is filled with a clash between red and blue uniforms.

George isn’t awful with a sword—Dream knows he’s well-trained in self-defense—but these pirates fight  _ dirty _ . Twice, Dream parries a blow that would have struck George through the ribs. Twice, he runs his blade through the offending pirate’s heart, watching the light leave their eyes with a sick satisfaction.

George looks frightened, but he says nothing. He only presses on.

Stolen swords in hand, Tommy and Wilbur have backed themselves up onto one of the battlements when Dream finally reaches the gallows. He glances around, makes a quick calculation in his head, and then grabs George’s arm and vaults up the steps, two at a time. George stumbles, but he doesn’t complain, and fierce pride takes root in Dream’s chest.

“Gentlemen!” he calls out once he catches up to the pirates, making sure George is still a step behind. Tommy freezes, looking back at Dream in thinly-disguised horror, and Wilbur pushes the younger boy behind him. The protective gesture would almost be  _ sweet _ if Tommy weren’t clearly preparing to cuss Dream out. “Leaving so soon?”

Tommy gapes. “You tried to  _ kill  _ us, you wanker—”

“Tommy,” Wilbur snaps, and the boy goes silent. “Dream, I don’t know what the fuck you’re up to, but if you don’t let us pass then you are going to sincerely regret it.” His tone brokers no argument, and he raises his blade. With the mist surrounding him, he looks like an avenging angel, come to paint the capital with bloodshed.

The sea air whips at their clothes mercilessly. On the other side of the wall is a steep drop where the ocean comes up to meet the battlement. The waves crash against the stone remorselessly.

“How about this,” Dream grits out. He feels the waters within him begin to stir, pounding against his heart like the sea far down below them. “You give yourselves up now, and I  _ don’t  _ kill you where you stand.” He has no leverage here and he knows it—Wilbur bares his teeth in a grin. 

Dream feels George tense against him at the words, and he makes a mental note to apologize to his friend later. He hadn’t intended to drag George headlong into his rivalry with Wilbur Soot when he’d set out today, but here they are.

“Fuck no,” Tommy says. 

“Let’s go. One on one,” Wilbur says loudly over his First Mate. He doesn’t break eye contact with Dream. “You and me, Dream. Stop hiding behind your boy over there. What are you so afraid of?”

George blushes furiously. “I’m not—I’m not his  _ boy,”  _ he stutters.

“Then what are you?” Wilbur says, and he has the audacity to sound  _ bored. _

“I’m his friend!” George says lamely. Dream sighs and raises his weapon.

“I hate to do this, Wilbur, but you leave me no choice,” he says, wincing, before he darts in close. Their blades meet in an awful clash of steel-against-steel, and the sound rings in Dream’s eardrums long after he pulls his sword away and leaps in for the kill.

Wilbur has always fought well. He fights with calculation, cataloging every move that Dream makes and the right amount of force needed to combat it. Precision is written in every line of his body, from the way he grips his sword’s hilt to the way he narrows his eyes. Even his footwork is perfect, like he’s fencing—two steps forward, strike, a parry, and a quick sidestep to the right. Dream falters and barely manages to bring his sword up in time to block Wilbur’s next blow.

“You’re getting careless, Dream,” Wilbur says through clenched teeth. Dream is satisfied to hear his breathing quicken when Dream lands a scratch on Wilbur’s cheek. Blood seeps from the cut, red against white skin. 

If Wilbur has any flaw at all, it’s that he’s too ambitious. He misjudges, overextends himself, grinning with triumph whenever he lands a blow. It leaves him wide open for a quick counterattack. Taking shots on impulse is a strange way to win a fight, but it evidently works for Wilbur.

“Oh really?” Dream dances back when Wilbur gets a little too close, balancing on his tiptoes. He’s vaguely aware that George and Tommy are fighting. George’s movements are a whole lot less stiff with the adrenaline of the fight. It’s clear he’s actually trying to stay alive.

“Really,” Wilbur breathes. His eyes are alight with a strange sort of satisfaction. It  _ is  _ thrilling, Dream thinks, the fight singing in his veins. There’s nothing like a near-death experience to get your blood pumping harder. And Wilbur is a worthy opponent. “I’m disappointed,  _ Grand Admiral.  _ I thought you’d have a few more tricks up your sleeve.”

Dream grits his teeth and narrowly sidesteps one of Wilbur’s strikes. “You’re not leaving me much room for creativity, Wilbur.”

“If you say so,” Wilbur hums. Dream clenches his fist around the hilt of his sword.

The bubbling rage underneath his skin fuels his next few strikes, making the steel of his sword sing out when it collides with Wilbur’s weapon. Wilbur stumbles a little, frowning at the ferocity in Dream’s movements, which only serves to make Dream more irritated.

“You can’t make anything easy, can you?” he huffs, moving in close so that Wilbur has no choice but to restrict his movements. They’re evenly matched, and for a moment, Dream revels in the realization that  _ he  _ has the upper hand here. Wilbur seems to recognize it, too; he snarls and pushes Dream back with a particularly ferocious jab to the ribs.

“Dream!  _ Dream!”  _

George’s yelp completely shatters Dream’s focus. When he turns to frantically check that George is okay, he’s horrified to see the other man backed against the wall with Tommy holding a blade against his throat. In the split second that Dream’s attention fractures, Wilbur takes the opportunity to knock his sword out of his hand. The weapon goes skittering along the ground, forgotten.

Dream curses and slips into Wilbur’s personal space again, up close, readying himself for hand-to-hand combat. Before he can even blink, though, Wilbur hooks a foot around Dream’s knee and sends him tumbling to the floor face-down. Dream gasps out as he hits the ground  _ hard,  _ and Wilbur presses a knee into Dream’s back, pinning him in place.

“I have to say,” Wilbur says, looking between George and Dream thoughtfully. Dream dreads his next words. “I expected more of you,  _ Grand Admiral Dream.  _ This is… an  _ interesting  _ development _.” _

“You get your dirty fucking hands away from him,” Dream gasps out, glaring daggers at Tommy. He’s so angry, he feels like he could burn this entire city to the ground.

The boy only grins toothily, pressing the knife harder into George’s space. “Or what?” Tommy sounds like he’s having way too much fun. “You’ll  _ kill me?”  _ His tone is mocking. Dream’s heart clenches when George’s eyelids flutter shut.

“I’ll bring the  _ entire force of the royal Navy  _ down on your heads,” Dream snarls. The words taste like ash in his mouth. “There will be no escape. I will hunt you down to the ends of this earth, and the next, and set fire to your ship. You will  _ burn. _ ” He laughs, the blunt edge of his anger swinging like a sword. “You will burn.”

Tommy blinks. Evidently, he had not expected Dream to paint such a dark picture of his eventual demise. “I think I’ll pass.”

Dream wants to throttle the younger boy. Before he can reach out to do so, however, Wilbur presses his knee harder into Dream’s back and leans down to whisper into Dream’s ear.

“I’m going to cut you some slack here, mate,” he says cheerfully. “Lover Boy here has barely a scratch on him—”

“You’re about to cut his goddamn throat!” Dream says, sounding a lot more calm than he feels. The ocean inside of him roars at the sight of George in danger. Dream, helpless to stop it.

“I said  _ barely  _ a scratch,” Wilbur repeats, sounding bored with it all. After a moment, he nods in sharp deliberation. “Tommy, let him go.”

Tommy tenses. “Wilbur, what—”

“Just do it.”

With a sigh, Tommy steps back, running his finger along the knife’s blade and glowering at George. Ever obedient.

“Don’t you ever get tired of being Wilbur’s lapdog?” Dream tries, a latch-ditch effort to distract the younger boy. Tommy raises an eyebrow and says nothing, remarkably self-controlled.

Relaxing visibly, George rubs at his throat, still eyeing Tommy and Wilbur with disdain and a healthy amount of fear.

“Come on, Tommy,” Wilbur says, and a pointed look again passes between the two pirates. After a moment, they seem to come to a decision, because Wilbur leans down again to murmur in Dream’s ear, breath hot on his skin. “Here’s how this is going to go,” Wilbur hums. “Tommy and I are going to vanish away onto the high seas. You’re going to give us a day’s headstart before you send your goons after us, because you’re nice like that.”

Dream bares his teeth, struggling uselessly beneath Wilbur’s knee. He hates feeling helpless like this, pinned to the floor. “What’s in it for me?”

Wilbur’s lips quirk. “Tommy will refrain from running your boyfriend through as we speak.” 

George chokes and manages to splutter out, “He’s not my—”

“Do we have a deal,  _ Grand Admiral?”  _ Wilbur’s tone becomes more insistent when he glances over his shoulder. At what, Dream wants to know. He does his best to crane his neck, trying to look over the edge of the wall, but all he gets is a glimpse of sails and a towering mast.

A very  _ specific  _ set of sails. Red, blue, white, and yellow, to be exact. A pattern that Dream sees every time he closes his eyes to sleep.  _ L’manburg _ ’s sails.

“You didn’t,” he breathes out.

Wilbur’s grin is audible as he removes his knee from Dream’s back. The pressure is insistent one moment and gone the next. Dream scrambles to his feet in an instant, but Wilbur is already perched on the wall, out of his reach. “Oh, we did. Found an old friend of yours to help, actually.”

_ An old friend?  _ There’s no one under Dream’s command who would be stupid enough to betray him. Everybody knows how the Navy deals with traitors: a short drop and a sudden stop. There’s no halfway point here.

The thought trails off as realization hits Dream like a punch to the gut. There’s only man he knows who would be _reckless_ enough to team with the likes of Wilbur Soot. If Dream is right about this… 

“No!” he yells, darting forward, but before he can reach Wilbur—and do what, exactly, he doesn’t know. Punch him? Gut him?—the other man leans backwards off the wall. Dream watches in horror as Wilbur sails through the air, out of sight, and he hurries to the edge of the battlement with bated breath.

He needn’t have worried. The  _ L’manburg  _ is right there, sailing jauntily by the fort’s walls. A tarpaulin is stretched out across her top deck, which cushions Wilbur’s fall and lets him slide onto the deck, unharmed. When he sees Dream watching from above, he waves, grinning.

Dream turns his attention to Tommy, who has perched himself on top of the wall, looking a little bit white-faced. His voice, when it comes out, shows no sign of fear. “You may have the entire force of the Royal Navy behind you, but we… ” He trails off, taking a step backward towards the ship, now at full mast.

Dream starts forward in an aborted movement. “Tommy, don’t you dare—”

“We have the Blade.”

And with that, Tommy flings himself off the wall after Wilbur, hitting the stretched-out tarpulin on  _ L’manburg _ ’s deck with a  _ thud.  _ Dream watches in dread as the ship pulls ahead, both its Captain and its First Mate safely aboard. 

The pink-haired man at the helm gives Dream a jaunty wave and then a one-fingered salute.

_ Fucking Technoblade.  _ Dream leans forward on the stone wall and curses, watching as the  _ L’manburg  _ happily sails her way to freedom.

“Schlatt is gonna kill me,” he says, faintly aware of George hovering behind him. He feels George wince, but it’s a cautious movement. “Are you okay?”

“‘m fine,” George says, even though he sounds nothing of the sort. His voice is raspy, and he won’t meet Dream’s gaze when the other man turns to catch his eye. “Just—a bit roughed up.”

Dream snorts. That is an understatement if he’s ever heard one. “Come on. We need to get you some medical attention.”

“What about Wilbur and—and Tommy?”

Dream casts a look back at the horizon to see the retreating figure of  _ L’manburg.  _ “Let them run,” he decides, and a knot of tension unravels in his chest. “I’ll give them a day.”

“A day,” George repeats. He looks—and sounds—a little dazed. Dream narrows his eyes at his friend, frowning, and presses a hand to George’s forehead. The motion makes George shiver.

“You’re burning up,” he says. “This sea mist probably isn’t doing you any good. Hold on—” And before he can have second thoughts, Dream shrugs out of his uniform jacket and drapes it around George’s shoulders in one fluid movement. 

George’s cheeks flush practically the color of Dream’s coat, but he clutches at the garment. “You don’t need to baby me. I’m not a child.”

“No, you’re not,” Dream says mildly. He checks George’s face for any signs of fever. Without thinking better of it, he raises a hand and brushes his thumb along George’s cheekbone. The skin there is cool to the touch, and George’s breath catches when Dream moves his hand away. “There. You shouldn’t come down with cold just yet.”

“I—thank you.” George is staring at him like he’s the moon, wide-eyed and hopeful, and something in Dream’s chest twists painfully. Before he can do something he’ll regret, he steps back, feeling strangely bereft without the feeling of George against him. Dream moves over to the wall so that he can stare out over the harbor, ignoring the way that George’s expression shutters at Dream’s distance.

He doesn’t back down, though. Taking a step towards the wall, George leans forward so that he’s right there, next to Dream. The wind ruffles his brown hair, which brushes warmly against Dream’s face as George mutters, “Fucking pirates.”

Dream is inclined to agree with the sentiment.

* * *

In the early evening light, the palace’s stained glass windows are dazzling. The light filtering through paints the stone floor in bright colors, depicting the figures of several kings long dead. Their mosaic lips are set in grim lines, an expression that is completely at odds with the vibrant reds, greens, and blues that make up the glass windows.

Dream has always loved the palace, especially at this time of night. The hallways are desolate—everyone is either at dinner or taking an afternoon repose—with only a few servants passing through. Whenever they see him, they redden, mutter a quick “Sir” under their breath, and scurry past.

Dream checks his pocket watch quickly from where he’s standing in one of the interior corridors. Six o’clock in the afternoon,  _ du soir,  _ and the castle should be at complete peace and quiet right now. Even with the calamity of the failed execution today, most of the lords and courtiers have made themselves scarce.

The serenity is there, thankfully, but as he turns the corner, drawing nearer and nearer to the throne room, the silence is broken by what can only be described as the King throwing a massive pissy fit.

“You absolute fucking fool!”

Dream halts behind the doorway, completely taken aback, and peers into the chamber. He doesn’t know what he expected to see, but it wasn’t this: the King perched on top of his throne, absolutely losing it, while his Prime Minister attempts to calm him down.

“You’re really gonna—”

“I gave you one thing to do!” Schlatt roars. “You had one job, Quackity! One fucking job! And you go ahead, and you, and you fuck it up—”

“It’s not my fault they had a double agent!” Quackity’s eyes flash with barely-restrained emotion. 

“You’re useless!” Schlatt designs his words to cut, sneering at his Prime Minister. “ _ Useless!  _ You’re too afraid to do what needs to be done! _ ” _

“I don’t see you having any bright ideas!” A glare sharp enough to cut glass. “It’s not like  _ you _ cared about letting them escape or not. You wanted to save your own fucking skin.”

A small part of Dream curls in contentment as he stands here, listening to them fight. He has always felt at home in chaos, whether it’s on the deck of a ship or in the throne room. Dream wants Schlatt to hurt just as much as Dream did earlier, seeing George inches away from death’s door like that. Sick satisfaction is the only word for the feeling in his gut.

Schlatt’s gaze is like a hurricane, tearing down everything in its path. When he speaks, his words whistle with the sheer force of wind behind them. “I am your  _ king,  _ and you would do well to remember that.”

“Oh, are you?” Quackity snaps. Dream inhales sharply—that’s too far and Big Q knows it. “All I see is a fucking _coward._ You really want what’s best for this kingdom? Then put the crown down, roll your sleeves up, and _man_ _up_ , Schlatt.”

There’s a beat of silence, probably where Quackity begins to regret the candor in his words. Speaking like that to a royal is a guaranteed death sentence. Dream pities the other man—Quackity is the only one in this entire palace, besides Dream, who has ever tried to keep the King’s ego in check. Evidently, his time is finally up.

Schlatt laughs coldly as Dream begins to back away from the door. “Get out of my sight.” The words are wild gusts, meant to smash Quackity against the walls. “Get the  _ hell  _ out of my sight.”

Quackity swallows audibly. “Your Majesty—”

“ _ GET OUT!”  _ Schlatt roars, a true force of nature, and Quackity doesn’t hesitate. Dream jumps back, concealing himself behind a nearby tapestry before he can be caught snooping. Quackity’s footsteps are harsh on the stone, clearly upset. He practically flees down the corridor as the throne room’s doors  _ bang  _ shut behind him.

Well, fuck. Today is probably not the best day to speak to Schlatt, if that conversation was any indication of the King’s state of mind. Dream hurries after Quackity with only a quick glance over his shoulder at the now-closed doors.

Dream fully expects retribution from Schlatt after the King’s explosive argument with Quackity. It’s clear that the King blames his men—and Dream by extension—for Wilbur and Tommy’s escape. He wouldn’t put it past the man to enact vengeance in cruel and unusual ways. There will be a price for Dream’s incompetence—the question is whether it will be paid in blood or something else.

But Schlatt says  _ nothing.  _ Hours turn into days turn into weeks, and Dream still tiptoes around the King, waiting for the inevitable explosion. If Schlatt’s anything, he’s fickle. Dream dreads the day that the King will turn on him for good.

So he makes himself scarce. He throws himself into his work, writing letter after letter and directing his men as they track down the  _ L’manburg.  _ Wilbur and Tommy have all but vanished into thin air after their little spectacle in the capital; Dream resists the urge to tear his hair out when his efforts to find the two come up empty. Fuck Wilbur Soot for knowing exactly how to disappear.

Locked away in his study for hours on end, Dream is so busy that he doesn’t realize he hasn’t seen George in three weeks until there’s a sharp knock at his door one night. He startles, brushing papers off his desk in his haste to grab the candle. It went dark outside a while ago, and the candle has burned down to a nub that barely lights the dingy room.

“Hello?” he calls, hating the way his voice croaks a little from disuse. It’s been hours, maybe days, since he spoke to another person. 

When George pokes his head around the door, looking a little uncertain, relief courses hot and fast through Dream’s veins. “Dream?”

“George!” Dream exclaims. He stands up abruptly, knocking several stacks of paper and an inkwell, to boot, onto the floor. Cursing, Dream ducks down to rescue his stationary. 

He glances up at George from the floor. In the candle’s dim light, the dark circles under his eyes are more pronounced, and the cut of his jawline looks sharp enough to cut.

Dream physically shuts down  _ that  _ train of thought and says, “What can I do for you?”

George grins, but he still looks a little uncomfortable. “Do I really need a reason to visit my best friend?”

“No,” Dream allows, even though his heart does a funny little thing at the word  _ friend.  _ “No, you don’t. Sorry. I was just catching up on work. You can—you can sit down.” He gestures to the two armchairs lurking haphazardly in the corner of the study, flushing when he realizes they are both covered in even more stacks of paper. Quickly, Dream moves to clear the debris off of the seats.

“It looks like a war zone in here,” George complains once he’s settled in the chair of his choice. He looks so at home among the clutter that Dream’s lip quirks up. “Have you even  _ slept  _ in the last few weeks?”

“I’ve slept!” Dream defends, even though the truthful answer to that question is probably  _ not enough.  _ He perches on the arm of the second chair, grinning down at George. “Not going to lie, it’s kind of rude of you to insinuate otherwise.”

George rolls his eyes, still smiling.

“How are you recovering after your traumatic ordeal?” Dream teases, even though there’s some gravity to his words.

George, to his surprise, begins to redden. “I’m fine,” he says, rubbing at his eyes. “Just tired. And it wasn’t a  _ traumatic ordeal.” _

“You were held at knifepoint—”

“By a  _ child, _ ” George reminds him.

Dream groans, muttering, “Don’t remind me,” underneath his breath. George laughs, delighted and startled all at once, and Dream wishes he could bottle up the sound and keep it.

“It’s okay, Dream,” George says, still grinning. “I feel bad for the kid, actually.”

Dream raises an eyebrow. George elaborates with, “He seems like he just found the wrong path, huh? Maybe a bad influence or two? Not the end of the world.”

“Maybe,” Dream allows, but he doesn’t say anything else. George doesn’t know these pirates like Dream does. He doesn’t see their faces every time he closes his eyes. Tommy may have been pushed onto the wrong path at first, but he’s shown no qualms in proving himself a true pirate, despite his age.

Maybe Dream has been using his work as an excuse to stay awake. Maybe he’s just afraid that if he falls asleep, his dreams will be haunted with visions of flashing swords, sharp grins, and burning flags.

Maybe.

George glances around at Dream’s papers, accepts the natural change in subject, and asks, “How’s it going? Have you found them yet?”

His fist clenches, but Dream’s voice comes out even when he says, “No. Not yet. They’re proving impossible to track down.”

“If anyone can find them, it’s you,” George says, reaching out to lay a hand over Dream’s. Out of habit, Dream clasps George's hand tightly and turns their hands over so that his is on top. The simple confidence in George's voice—his complete faith in Dream—and the feel of his smooth skin are almost overwhelming. If Schlatt is a hurricane, then George is a rock, steady and calm beneath Dream’s hands.

_ Beneath Dream’s hands.  _ Flushing, Dream resists the urge to do something wholly inappropriate and instead removes his hand from George’s. “I’m flattered that you think so,” he says, impressed at the steadiness of his voice. 

“I do.”

“Well, you shouldn’t. I’m a mess.”

George scoffs. “That’s not true. You’re the best person for this job. You know these pirates inside and out.”

“But Schlatt—”

“Fuck Schlatt. Dream, you’re the best damn swordsman this kingdom has ever seen. You’re a terror on the seas. There’s a reason Wilbur is hiding from you.”

Dream snorts, carding a hand roughly through his hair. George’s eyes are drawn to the motion. “Because I let him escape.”

“Because you  _ scare  _ him. You scare all of them. Wilbur, Tommy, even Technoblade—”

_ Technoblade.  _ George should know better than to bring up Dream’s one regret like that. “Technoblade is a wild card.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s not scared of you.”

_ He scares  _ me _ ,  _ Dream wants to say. And for good reason. Technoblade is the only man who has even beaten Dream in a duel, one-on-one— _ without the distraction of a sixteen year-old pressing a knife against his best friend's throat,  _ his mind supplements. The thought of Techno on Wilbur’s side makes Dream’s heart rate pick up and his hands become sticky with sweat.

“I want to come with you,” George says abruptly.

Dream frowns. “Come again?”

“To find  _ L’manburg,”  _ George says, impatient, and Dream’s heart falls.

“George, you can’t—”

“Don’t give me that,” George snaps. “Dream, I can do this. I  _ want  _ to do this.”

“You’d be a liability,” Dream says, and he winces at how harsh the words make him sound. He doesn’t say what he really wants to say, which is  _ I don’t want to see you get hurt.  _

George looks hurt. “I can learn.” He scans Dream’s face frantically. The void opens up between them again, deep and wide and far too expansive. “You can teach me. Can’t you?”

Dream opens his mouth to say  _ yes, anything,  _ but the words won’t come out. Memory swirls up to clog his throat—Wilbur’s sharp smile, the glint of Tommy’s knife against George’s throat. Sickly sweet words, cloying like honey. _ “This is… an interesting development.” _ A knowing wave. Techno’s vicious grin.

He can’t put George in danger like that again.

“George…” Dream trails off. He’s fully unsure of what to say, how far to go. George reads the emotion in his face perfectly, brow crumpling as he stand up from the chair. “Please—it’s not that I don’t care—”

“You don’t  _ care  _ about anything but yourself,” George says quietly. Somehow, the soft tone hurts more than if he’d screamed the words in Dream’s face. “You’ve made that quite clear.”

Dream stands up in an awkward, aborted movement as he reaches out for his friend. “George, please—”

Before he can plead with George any further, there’s a sharp rap on the door—two visitors in one night, Dream thinks humorlessly—and it pushes open. 

Dream is shocked to see Quackity, of all people, poke his head into the room. Even though his gaze is unreadable, relief seeps into the lines of Quackity’s shoulders when he sees the two of them standing there. “George, what the fuck? I’ve been looking all over for you.” 

George doesn’t take his eyes away from Dream’s face. Dream feels a strange tug in his gut. Is he forever doomed to be pulled toward George like this? A strong attraction, like that of a magnet? “What’s up, Big Q?”

“I’ll tell you what’s up.” Quackity scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “Schlatt’s lost it again. He’s gone insane.”

“What do you mean, ‘insane?’” 

“I mean full-on batshit crazy, George, sheesh.” Quackity shakes his head. “He’s roaming his quarters and shouting at the top of his lungs. I tried to calm him down, but…” He shrugs. “He got pissed. God, it’s too early for this shit.”

Dream checks, and sure enough, his pocketwatch displays the time as three o’clock in the morning. He’s been up all night; no wonder he feels exhausted.

“George, can I talk to you?” Quackity bursts out. He doesn’t look over at Dream when he adds, “Alone?”

George finally tears his gaze away from Dream and says, “Sure.” Dream’s jaw clenches. “Your study?”

“My study,” Quackity confirms. He backs up a step, holds the door open for George, nods to Dream. Dream watches the two of them head out with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“George!” he calls, causing the other man to glance back at him for the first time. Dozens of emotions, of words unspoken, pass between the two of them in that instant.

Dream realizes that George is waiting for him to say something, hanging back in the doorway with an expectant expression. “Uh… good night,” he finishes lamely, and he immediately wants to kick himself.

George’s expression shutters. He ducks his head. “Good night, Dream.”

Dream watches them go, feeling oddly bereft. Quackity’s footsteps are loud on the stone floor, and his sword’s sheath hits his thigh with a  _ slap  _ every other step.

_ Wait a minute. _

Why is Quackity, of all people, armed in the very interior of the palace? It’s no secret that Schlatt is incredibly paranoid. If he saw Quackity with his weapons, the King would very likely go up in smoke.

It’s probably nothing. Dream shouldn’t be worrying about this. He has a manhunt to concern himself, with pirates to track down… George can handle himself.

_ George can handle himself. _

It doesn’t stop Dream from gazing after his best friend in clear concern, trying his best to ignore the trepidation brewing in his gut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave kudos and a comment if you enjoyed!! i'd love to know what you think :DD


	2. Retaliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Quackity is not what he seems, George has a hard heart-to-heart with Wilbur, and Techno, as usual, does not give a shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't tell you all how completely blown away i am by your comments here and reactions on twitter!! it means the world to me to see people enjoying my work like this.
> 
> also bea drew [FANART](https://twitter.com/twtbea/status/1330631082077794306) FOR THIS FIC AND IT'S INCREDIBLE HOLY SHIT. she is INSANELY talented y'all. she also beta'd this chapter so thanks a whole bunch bb ily <3 <3
> 
> without further ado: chapter two! content warning for this chapter includes blood, if that makes you uncomfortable, and chloroform used to knock a character out.

George’s anger hums underneath his skin, a constant buzz as he trails Quackity through the palace hallways. What the fuck is Dream playing at? He _knows_ how much George hates feeling useless. He _knows_ that George is barely skilled enough to keep himself alive, let alone take down a pirate. He doesn’t have to rub it in like this.

Does Dream think that George would be a distraction? A liability? Or is he trying to say something else entirely?

“So you and Dream are pretty close, huh?”

When George glances over at Quackity, taken aback by his candor, the other man gives him a knowing grin. “I thought so.”

“What about you and the King?” snaps George—he isn’t in the mood for one of Big Q’s stupid games—and the words have the intended effect. Quackity shuts his mouth with a _click_. His glare cuts into George’s cheek like broken glass.

They continue down the hallway in silence. George’s thoughts are a swirl of emotion, bright and frustrated, and he almost doesn’t notice when Quackity stops dead in front of one of the doors lining the corridor. It’s a nondescript door—made of regular wood, like all the others—except for a dent just above the knob.

“Here,” Quackity says, offering no explanation, and he pulls a key from his pocket.

The door opens to reveal a modest study—still nowhere near as chaotic as Dream’s—with a desk, a couple of armchairs, and a fireplace. Quackity stoops to revive the dying embers that provide the room with a dull heat, wincing as he does so. For the first time, George notices the telltale bulge of bandages tucked neatly underneath his right shirt sleeve.

“Are you okay? What happened to your arm?”

Quackity glances down, and to George’s surprise, bares his teeth in an almost self-deprecating grin. “A reminder,” he says shortly, voice caught up with emotion. It’s a warning— _drop the topic. Now._ Or else.

Unluckily for him, George has never had an acute sense of self-preservation.“A reminder… a reminder for what?”

“Not to stick your nose in _other people’s business,_ you jackass _._ ” Quackity pokes at the fire aggressively, his back turned to George. The flames come back to life slowly underneath his skilled hands, sputtering and crackling.

“Fine.” George lets it drop, but the subject hangs in the air between them, unresolved. “What do you want, Quackity?”

“I want a lot of things,” Quackity says as he straightens up. The fire roars in the grate now, and the room feels almost uncomfortably warm. “Be more specific.”

“You interrupted my conversation—”

“Really? It looked a whole lot more like an argument to me.”

“—with Dream for this,” George says sharply. He doesn’t correct himself, even though he knows Quackity is right. “Get it over with.”

“It’s not…” Quackity trails off then shakes his head. He motions to one of the armchairs. “Do you want to sit down for this?”

George remains standing. “Quackity,” he warns.

“Fine,” Quackity says, sounding like he regrets everything that ever led him to this conversation. “Have you ever thought… have you ever thought that maybe the rebels were right?”

George blinks, taken aback. _The rebels._ It takes him a moment to think back as memories of defection, screaming, and _fire_ come to mind. “You mean Wilbur Soot?”

Quackity nods his assent.

 _He means the_ L’manburg. “It’s not something I’ve considered.”

The other man scoffs, sounding a little disappointed. His words are designed to cut. “Well, that’s not a surprise. You don’t have a disloyal bone in your body.”

George feels his heart pound just a little bit faster at Big Q’s words. Maybe it’s the stifling heat of the fire that’s making sweat break out on his brow. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t you ever get tired of following the King blindly?”

“No!” The horror of the thought makes him feel numb. “And being a loyal citizen isn’t _following him blindly,_ Jesus Christ, Quackity.”

“No?” The words hold an underlying challenge. “You don’t get sick of Dream and his orders?”

 _That’s it._ Dream has _always_ been off-limits. No matter how bitterly Quackity and George may fight, Dream is off-limits. For both of them. Quackity has gone _too far_ this time _,_ and he knows it _._

George almost chokes on his next words. “That’s not fair.”

“You didn’t give me an answer.” Quackity’s presence is suddenly too intense for George, filling up the room with treasonous words and inappropriate insinuations. He can’t breathe—he can’t do anything except stare at Big Q in horror.

“No!” George laughs humorlessly, runs a hand through his hair. It’s starting to stick to his forehead with sweat. “Of course I don’t!”

Big Q’s smile is all teeth. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I think you know what I’m saying.”

“You can’t just—you can’t just _say_ that. Fuck, Quackity, that’s _treason_.” 

There’s an immense amount of bitterness in Quackity’s tone when he hisses, “Fine. It’s treason. Who gives a fuck?!” He clenches his hands into fists, leaning forward on the desk.

George can’t believe what he’s hearing. The words light up the room like matches—burning hard, fast, and oh-so-dangerous. “You could hang for saying that!”

“And I don’t care! What don’t you understand?!”

“What happened?” George demands suddenly, because there’s _no way_ Quackity would say all this. Not unless something happened to set him off first. “You said the King was mad. What happened? What did he say?”

The question seems to throw Quackity off-balance. “Schlatt fired me,” Quackity says finally, the words coming out all in a rush. George blinks, taken aback. That… is _alarming_ , he can’t lie. “He fucking _fired_ me!”

“Aren’t you an elected representative?” George thinks of the months of campaigning and the elections that led to Quackity’s appointment as Prime Minister; the pride and joy in Big Q’s eyes on inauguration day; the _hope_ that the people had held for him.

“Yes!” Quackity’s eyes flash, and George knows he’s thinking of the same memory. “Exactly! He had no right!”

“Be that as it may,” George says dryly, “I don’t think committing treason is the best way to get your post in government back.”

“I don’t want to regain my post.” Big Q’s voice is hard as flint, scraping against George’s very soul. “I want Schlatt _gone,_ man. Fuck him. Fuck this city. It can go up in flames for all I care.”

Danger slowly heats Quackity’s words until they’re too hot to touch. George, uncomfortably aware of the implications behind the sentiment, avoids his gaze. “You’re talking about treason.”

Quackity snorts. “Oh, fuck off. You know I’m right, George.”

“No.” George shakes his head firmly. “There’s a way to fix things. But not like this.”

Quackity’s face twists. The tension in the air, for the moment, is so thick that George thinks he could slice through it with a kitchen knife.

“I was afraid you were going to say that,” Quackity says, and he leaps for George’s throat.

All of George’s instincts kick in as he ducks, narrowly missing Big Q’s first swing. His thoughts are running a mile a minute, far too loud for him to be grounded.  
  
“What the hell?!” he exclaims, stumbling backward as Quackity pulls his sword from its sheath. Adrenaline thrums through his veins. It would be an addicting feeling if Big Q weren’t currently trying to _kill him._ “You’re really gonna try and kill me?”

“It’s not personal,” Quackity says as if _that_ makes it any better, and he zeroes in on George. George isn’t armed—not surprising, since he’s in the middle of the fucking Palace—and he feels a sick sense of dread climb up his throat.

They move across the room as if they’re dancing, step for step, glare for glare. George watches Quackity with growing trepidation as the Prime Minister—well, _ex_ -Prime Minister now—swings his sword around a few times, getting a feel for the weapon. The blade moves like an extension of him, fluid and deadly.

George’s heart is in his throat. “You’re not gonna use that.”

“I’m _done,_ ” Quackity bites out, “with people telling me what to do.”

There’s no way out for George. Not here. He’s weaponless, defenseless in the face of a much better swordsman. But if he can make it to the door before Quackity catches him…

Unbidden, his gaze darts over to the closed door. Quackity’s grin widens when he realizes George’s thought process.

“You’re really gonna leave?” Big Q whines with a shit-eating grin, and for an instant, George considers the possibility that Quackity might have gone _completely insane_ when Schlatt fired him. “We were having so much fun!”

The thought leaves as soon as it comes, leaving George staring down an extremely armed and very dangerous man. “You don’t have to do this,” George manages to get out. He’s practically paralyzed by terror.

The corner of Quackity’s lips turns up into a resigned smirk. “No, I don’t. But I’m gonna enjoy it anyway.”

And with that, he steps forward, just as George scrambles in the direction of the door. George makes it across the room in record time—he has one hand on the doorknob, turning the knob just as Quackity slams into his back. George gasps out as he’s dragged across the room. Tears sting in the corners of his eyes. So close, yet so far.

Quackity twists them around with practiced grace, swapping their positions and pinning George against the desk in one fast, fluid movement. It’s over before it ever began. George pants, twisting against Quackity’s iron hold. When he spots the damp handkerchief in Quackity’s right hand, he struggles even more violently, almost knocking over the desk chair in his desperation.

“Please, Big Q—”

The words hit a nerve. “Don’t call me that,” Quackity hisses, and he brings the cloth to George’s mouth roughly. The sharp, sweet scent clouds George’s senses, and he begins to feel his grasp on consciousness slipping. The edges of his vision blur dangerously, and he feels himself wobble against the desk.

“Dream will find me,” he hisses, words slurring. “You won’t get away with this—”

“Oh, I will.” Quackity’s voice is hard. “Down with the King,” he murmurs as George’s eyes close against his will. Losing his hold on the last vestiges of consciousness, he tips forwards into a restless sleep.

* * *

The only dreams—visions—that come to George in this strange, in-between place are nightmares.

At first, George sees blood, black against the muted colors of his dream world. It’s everywhere—sticky between his fingers, clogging up his throat, spilling through the streets of the capital. He opens his mouth to scream and chokes on it.

The metallic taste follows him as he runs through the capital’s streets, which are stained black. Despite all the blood, there are no bodies. He is completely and utterly alone.

It hurts in an awful, tangible way, and George crumples to his knees and weeps for his city, for his kingdom, for his _King_.

Following the blood is fire, wild and unpredictable. The city burns, just like Quackity said it would. Flames lick at George’s calves, painless despite the cries of agony that leap from his throat. Wooden and stone buildings alike go up in smoke. Even the Palace crumbles, far-off in the distance.

Somehow, George makes it to the harbor. The sky darkens with flame and smoke. He watches as Dream stands atop the deck of a familiar ship _,_ her sails alight with flame _._ His hair, a bright halo against the flames, makes him look like an avenging angel. 

Or a devil. George has never been too clear on the difference between the two.

George yells for Dream, warning him of the fire that threatens to consume him, but his friend doesn’t seem to hear. The _L’manburg_ sails off into the gloom, leaving George stranded.

The scene shifts again. George finds himself perched in an armchair, back in the palace library. He breathes in the scent of aging books and yellowed pages. When he exhales, he breathes out the tension in his body. It’s such a foreign feeling, knowing he’s not himself; this is another George. A happier, _better_ version of himself.

It’s calm, serene, _beautiful_ —early morning light streams through the windows. _I’m happy here,_ dream-George thinks, and it’s true. With the setting and the serenity comes a strange sense of freedom.

“Thought I’d find you here,” comes a teasing voice. Dream appears at the edge of his vision, dressed in a familiar set of beautifully-made robes that denote him as the Prime Minister. George gazes up at his right-hand man in awe as Dream reaches him, every stride filled with purpose.

“What?”

“You can’t hide from your court forever, you know,” he says in mock scorn. He leans forward and takes George’s hand lightly in his own, raising it to his lips. George feels like his hand has been branded, red-hot, where Dream’s mouth makes contact with the skin.

“I can try,” George breathes. _I’m King,_ he thinks suddenly, and the statement fills him only with a quiet sense of pride. He’s King because he deserves to be. _I’m King._

This other, bolder version of George reaches out, unbidden, to cup Dream’s jaw in his hand. The man’s hair looks like gilded sunlight. Dream blinks down at him, lashes curling lazily against his face, and leans into the touch. His eyes darken indolently.

“Your Majesty,” he hums. He gives George no warning before he leans down and _kisses_ George. 

George’s stomach gives a little flutter, but he holds on for dear life. Kissing Dream is an addictive feeling, like drinking a piping hot bowl of soup—it burns as it goes down, but in a good way, and George thinks, _oh,_ as the scene changes yet again. 

He’s no longer King. This time, he can hear an alarm clanging, annoying and impatient. George groans, looks around for the source of the sound, only to spot a figure in the distance of his vision. The man is too far away to make out his features, obscured by a strange haze.

The alarm turns into the sound of a voice, high-pitched, irritating, and constant. The figure draws nearer and recognition hums through George; it’s Tommy, the pirate that had held George at knifepoint only a few weeks earlier.

“—to wake up,” Tommy is saying. “Wake up!”

And George jolts awake with a start. 

The first thing he registers is the sway of the ocean beneath his feet, the stinging scent of salt in his nose. When he forces his eyes open, anxiety heightened by the threat of unfamiliar surroundings, everything is far too bright, and he groans.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, bitchboy,” says a familiar voice, curled through with satisfaction, and George’s eyes snap all the way open in horror. “Glad you could make it.”

No. He _has_ to still be dreaming. There’s no way Tommy is _here,_ in front of George, grinning like a maniac.

George shuts his eyes, counts to ten, and reopens them.

Tommy is still there. He’s looking a little concerned now, peering at George’s face. “Did you just fucking zone out?” he asks. “After I woke you up in the most ominous way possible? I’m offended. What the fuck, George?”

George wants to be sick. “Where the hell am I?” he bites out as his eyes dart around the small room he’s found himself in, desperate for an answer. The ceiling hangs low above them, practically touching the top of Tommy’s head. Light streams in through a dingy window above a small, neatly made bed. There's also a desk with piles of paper stacked neatly on top of it, and a locked chest pushed up against the wall. George's eyes scan the walls for any other indicators of his current location, but they're empty except for a map stuck to the wall with a dagger.

George’s first realization: he’s tied to a chair.

George’s second realization: The boy who, just days ago, had jumped at the chance to slit George’s throat is standing right in front of him. And this time, Dream isn’t around to deter Tommy.

The wooden boards underneath him groan. George shifts in his bonds, his thoughts racing a mile a minute. "We're on the _L'manburg_ , aren't we?" he says after a moment.

Tommy blinks. "You don't miss a thing, do you? Fuck yeah, man. You're on the _L'manburg_ , and you're our prisoner now, so you'd better do what we say or else—"

"Tommy?" Another voice comes through the door, concerned. "Is that you?"

Tommy's eyes widen, and he stumbles back from George, who watches the proceedings carefully. "No!" he yells back. When he realizes his error, he grimaces. There's a beat of silence where both Tommy and the man standing outside process just how _stupid_ that sounds. Then—

"Tommy, you don't have a subtle bone in your body." The doorknob turns slowly, accompanied by the _click_ of a key being turned in the lock, and Wilbur Soot pokes his head through the door into the cabin.

He looks tired. Wilbur's face is pale, with dark bags underneath his eyes. His hair is quite a bit longer than it was three weeks ago, hanging limply against his face like it needs a good wash. Most of his brown curls are pinned underneath his tricorn hat. He stares at Tommy pointedly before glancing over at George.

"The hostage is awake," Tommy chirps unhelpfully.

Wilbur sighs and presses a hand to his temple. He’s wearing rings, George notices faintly. Every finger is covered in silver bands, dripping in wealth. On anyone else, the rings would seem tacky, but on Wilbur, they just look imposing. "Tommy—"

"I'll be outside if you need me," Tommy says hurriedly, clearly wanting to escape a lecture, and he quickly goes to leave. Before he can escape out the door, though, Wilbur's bejeweled hand lands on Tommy's shoulder. Tommy looks up at Wilbur in surprise.

"Stay," Wilbur says softly. George gets the feeling that Wilbur's saying more than that, that George is an interloper amid a very important conversation here, but he can’t read the pirate’s expression. "Please, Tommy."

Tommy, seemingly at a loss for words, nods once and settles himself behind Wilbur, perching on the locked chest haphazardly. He’s short enough to squeeze into the narrow space, but he’s still comically big on top of the small chest. George pushes down the laugh that threatens to bubble up in his throat.

The Captain finally turns his attention to George, his expression lighting up a little in smug satisfaction. _Here we go,_ George thinks with absolutely no trace of excitement whatsoever. "Well, good morning, sleeping beauty. You've been awfully quiet."

"Fuck off," George says, feeling exhausted. Wilbur just smirks and leans back against the desk, his long frame moving fluidly as he tilts his head back to gaze thoughtfully at George. "If you're planning to ransom me, don't bother. The King doesn't have enough money in the royal coffers for _your_ taste."

Wilbur cocks a brow. "Who said we wanted money from the King?"

So it's Dream they're after, then? _Good to know._ "Dream's the Grand Admiral, he's hardly rich enough to pay a ransom." George holds Wilbur's gaze, fully aware of the danger he's in here. "Your plan won't work, Wilbur. He'll find me. He'll track you down. And when he comes...." He laughs without a trace of humor in the sound. "When he comes, he will _burn_ you."

Like the dream. Was it a nightmare, or was it a premonition of the future? George flushes at the implications of that thought—he doesn't have nearly enough time right now to dwell on what the dream had meant, what the _kiss_ had meant, what George as the King had meant...

"So you say," Wilbur says, sounding wholly unconcerned at the prospect of his imminent demise. "You seem quite convinced of our evil intent."

"You fucking _kidnapped_ me," George says in disbelief. "And I'm a hostage aboard _your_ ship."

"To be fair," Tommy says quickly as if he can’t resist interjecting, " _Quackity_ was the one who kidnapped you. We're merely the ones reaping the benefits."

"Aren’t you a child? Why are you the one threatening me?" George wonders aloud, going for nonchalant. He tries to ignore the way that the mention of Quackity pulls at his heart. George had _trusted_ Big Q, goddamn it, and the other man had repaid that trust by knocking George out and smuggling him out of the fucking palace. 

George means for his words to cut deep, and he succeeds; Tommy's eyes immediately flash with emotion. "Hey! You listen here, you fucking asshole—"

"Tommy," Wilbur says in exasperation, and Tommy shuts his mouth promptly, but not before shooting Wilbur an annoyed look. It's interesting how much control Wilbur has over his first mate, George thinks, and he wonders just how far that control might stretch. What would Tommy do to win his Captain’s approval? "George—can I call you George?"

"No," George says.

"George," Wilbur continues, "we brought you aboard the _L'manburg—_ "

"Against my will!"

"—out of the goodness of our hearts.” He grins, a quick little smile. “And also because we want the same things."

George stares at him, now incomprehensibly lost. "We do?"

"Yeah!" Tommy says, jumping at his chance. "We do! See, you want Quackity dead—"

 _"Tommy!"_ Wilbur exclaims. He sounds like he regrets allowing Tommy to stay for this little tête-à-tête. "Knock it off. Quackity stays alive." The _for now_ is implied in his words, and George feels his heart skip a beat—what has he stumbled into here? Fighting the crew of the _L’manburg_ is one thing, but dealing with intersectional pirate politics is a whole other can of worms.

"Fine," Tommy sighs.

"What do you mean, we want the same things?" George says after a moment. He frowns. "You're pirates."

"So?"

"So… so we _can't_ want the same things." George struggles to explain himself—the words escape him. "You—you want to burn the city down, for Christ's sake! No one in their right mind would let you do that."

"No, we don't!" Tommy says hurriedly, like they’ve had this argument beforehand, and he nudges Wilbur. The older man doesn't say anything, still watching George carefully.

George sighs. "Well, what _do_ you want?"

"Peace," says Wilbur immediately. He’s evidently thought about this before. At length. "Freedom to go where we want without a price on our heads. Schlatt gone."

"See, that's where we disagree," George says, amused despite himself. "I don't want the King dead, even though everyone seems to think I do."

"Dead?" Wilbur says, darkly amused. "Who said anything about killing him?"

George's mouth falls open when he realizes his mistake, and he flushes a bright red. "That's… that's not important.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Cut to the goddamn chase, Wilbur,” George bites out. His words, designed to cut through the faux politeness of their conversation, do the trick. Wilbur stiffens; Tommy rests a hand on the hilt of his sword. Both of them are tensed, ready to spring. “Go on. Spit it out. Why do you need me?”

Wilbur opens his mouth, his expression dark, but Tommy beats him to it. “Insurance,” the kid sneers. “That’s all you are, pal.”

“Insurance against what?”

Tommy grins, the expression sharp and dangerous. “Surely you know what.”

George stares him down, curiously aware of sensation. The ship sways under their feet. The ropes that are wrapped around him dig into his wrists, itchy and the slightest bit too tight. “Enlighten me.”

“Invasion. Retribution. Blackmail.” Tommy counts them off on his fingers as he speaks, and George resists the urge to laugh. This is ridiculous—he’s sitting there and letting a fucking _sixteen-year-old_ lecture him about blackmail. 

“All wonderful things.”

Wilbur snorts. Tommy just looks angry. “No! No. They’re things which _your_ presence here should prevent, you fucker. It’s over for Schlatt. Your boyfriend Dream can’t save you now.”

 _And there it is._ George bristles, more for show than anything else. He’s well aware of the whispers about him and Dream, in the Navy and the palace alike. He fully expected these pirates to play this card. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

Tommy repeats, “Your—boyfriend—Dream,” with such agonizing slowness that George wishes they’d skipped straight to the torture instead. It might have hurt less than being forced to sit here and endure the whims of a child.

“Not my boyfriend,” George reminds him. Tommy rolls his eyes.

Wilbur eyes him carefully. The older man is more shrewd than Tommy, George thinks—the kid wears his heart right on his sleeve, displaying his emotions and loyalties for the whole world to see. It’s cute, but it’s naive, and one day someone is going to take a knife and stab Tommy right in the heart.

Wilbur, on the other hand, is far more calculating. He’s the sort who would lose a battle to win the war, dangerously idealistic in all that he does. Wilbur sounds cocky on the surface, but underneath, he’s playing a winning game. His lip curls now in something that looks vaguely like amusement. “Don’t play dumb, George, it doesn’t suit you.”

“Fuck off,” George says, out of habit more than anything else. “I don’t know why you think there’s something between me and Dream—”

“Plenty.”

“—but you’re mistaken. _”_ He holds Wilbur’s gaze, hoping the other man can’t hear George’s pounding heart, and keeps his voice as steady as he can. “There is _nothing there.”_

Wilbur just hums, noncommittal. Somehow, the simple sound is infinitely more frustrating than _anything_ else he could have said in response.

George’s sigh is loud in the relative silence of the room. “So it _is_ Dream you’re after, then.”

Wilbur shrugs, still wearing that infuriating little grin on his face. “You said it. Not me.”

“Dream is the capital’s best defense.” George’s mind is racing, jumping from plan to plan, strategy to strategy. “How are you going to use _me_ to stop him? He won’t just hand the palace to you on a silver platter. Not in exchange for me. He’s too clever to fall for that.”

Wilbur and Tommy exchange a look that George can’t parse.

“You’re better off just letting me go now. Because if Dream finds out…” He shudders. “You don’t stand a chance.”

“We can fucking take Dream,” Tommy says hotly. Wilbur holds up a hand, his gaze still burning intently into George’s eyes. The moment stretches out between the three of them, painfully long before Wilbur speaks.

“That’s enough, Tommy,” he says sourly. He sounds uncharacteristically snappish. “Why don’t you go see if Tubbo needs any help with inventory?”

Tommy’s expression doesn’t change, but his voice betrays just how crestfallen he clearly is when he says, “Wilbur—”

“George and I have unfinished business,” Wilbur says. When he twists his head to glower at Tommy over his shoulder, George feels his heart rate pick up again. _Unfinished business?_ “Leave us be for a moment.”

Tommy and Wilbur stare at each other for a long, hard second, before the younger boy rises to his feet. “Fine,” he says, clearly thrown off. “I, uh—don’t kill him, Wil.”

Wilbur snorts as Tommy heads to the door, voice hard. “If _that’s_ what you’re worried I’ll do, then there’s nothing to be concerned about.”

“You’re a strange old man, Wilbur Soot,” Tommy says, and he flips Wil off as he heads back out onto the deck.

When the door _clicks_ shut behind Tommy—bringing with it a fresh breath of salty sea air that George inhales gratefully—Wilbur’s surly demeanor changes in an instant. “I apologize for my First Mate,” he says to George calmly, as if they’re merely old friends having a cup of tea together. “He’s quite hot-tempered when he wants to be.” 

George frowns. “He’s a fucking _child,_ Wilbur.”

“He has his uses,” Wilbur says darkly, and it’s such a ominous thing to say that George actually blinks in surprise. “Now, where were we?”

“You were going to let me go back to the capital?” It’s a weak try and George knows it.

As expected, Wilbur rolls his eyes. “Yeah, no. I’m not falling for that one.”

George shrugs as best as he can while tied to a chair. “It was worth a shot.”

Wilbur leans back, a few strands of hair falling into his eyes as he does so. He blows them out of his face, but his eyes never leave George’s. “I think we need to make a deal, George. You and me.”

George hesitates, tempted. “What kind of deal?”

Wilbur grins, rougish. “Well, first of all, I want you to promise that you won’t try and knock me out and escape at the first chance you get.”

George scoffs. “No. What the fuck. What kind of an idiot would agree to that?!”

“My point exactly.” Wilbur leans forward a little, a smirk tugging at the edges of his lips. His voice falls low, almost sensual, when he hums, “There’s nowhere for you to run, George. You’re surrounded by miles and miles of water. Even if you managed to jump ship, we’d only catch up to you sooner or later. It’s hopeless. Fully hopeless. You know that, right?”

George swallows thicky. Wilbur, unfortunately, is completely and utterly right. There’s no clever way for him out of this sticky situation.

“Say I promise not to attack you,” he says slowly. “What are the chances that you’d agree to throw Quackity overboard?”

The familiar argument triggers something steely in Wilbur’s gaze. He grinds out, “I am not an unreasonable man, George. Do not push me further than I am willing to go, or you will regret it. Do I make myself clear?”

George finds himself nodding, taken aback by the vehemence in Wilbur’s voice.

“Very well, then. Here are my terms: you will sleep in this cabin every night with the door locked from the outside.”

“Fuck no,” George says, already bristling. 

“You’re lucky I’m willing to share my cabin with you,” Wilbur points out. “We’ll find you a spare hammock, of course, but I won’t have you sleeping on the deck.”

George bites down on his lip, hard enough to taste blood. “What about ‘no’ do you not understand, pirate? You can’t lock me up. I refuse.”

“This is nonnegotiable.” Wilbur’s eyes bore into George like chips of hard flint. “It’s partly for your safety, as well. Do you really think the pirates aboard this ship won’t come after you once they figure out you’re Dream’s pet noble?”

Outrage bubbles up in George’s chest. “I am _not—”_

“You might not think so,” Wilbur says sagely, “but _they_ do. I think you’ll find that when we want to survive in this world, it is other’s opinions that matter. Far more so than our own.”

George flushes angrily, but he can’t argue with Wilbur’s logic. “Fine. I’ll let you lock me in, and I won’t attack you. But I want free reign of the _L’manburg_ during the day.”

“No can do, I’m afraid.” Wilbur sounds amused, which only serves to make George angrier.

“I’m your fucking prisoner!” he points out. He fully intends to collect information on the pirates’ activities and report back to Dream when he can, but Wilbur doesn’t need to know that. “I could wreak a _hell_ of a lot more damage stuck in here, where all your plans are, than I could if you let me loose out on deck.”

Wilbur tilts his head to the side, considering. “You may have a point,” he concedes. “Fine. You may have freedom to traverse the ship. But if I catch you wandering about and sticking your nose into any place it doesn’t belong, then I’m throwing you in the brig.” His gaze is unwavering when he adds, “You’re lucky I didn’t leave you there to rot in the first place.”

“Why didn’t you?” George asks, shivering at the look in Wilbur’s eyes.

Wilbur shrugs. “Dunno. I felt a bit bad for you, actually. It must be hard living in the Grand Admiral’s shadow all the time.”

George feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. Wilbur is a lot cleverer than he looks if he’d noticed _that_ little sentiment from only a few minutes of interaction with George. “I—it’s not—”

“Don’t worry,” Wilbur says, and the pity in his voice is almost worse than the ire. “I don’t think Dream has noticed. Yet.”

“Good to know,” George mumbles, sarcasm biting at the words.

“You can psychoanalyze the Grand Admiral later. Do we have a deal?” Wilbur looks at him expectantly, and George realizes that this is it. _This is my moment._ After years of Dream’s naval victories, it’s finally George’s turn to shine.

“Yes,” he says, finally, ignoring the way his stomach twists at the words. It’s simple, really: Wilbur gets to lock George away at night in exchange for his cooperation. George gets the freedom to roam the ship during the day as he pleases. “We have a deal.”

Wilbur’s grin turns sly. He pulls a dagger from his coat pocket, twirling it about in his fingers a few times before reaching across to slice through the ropes binding George. “Then welcome aboard the _L’manburg._ I hope you enjoy your stay.”

George rubs at his wrists and tries to feel like he hasn’t just sold his best friend out to his enemy.

* * *

After his initial deal with Wilbur, the days aboard the _L’manburg_ begin to slowly but surely blend into each other. The sun rises and sets above their little ship in a steady rhythm—George watches every sunset and sunrise in complete solitude, forlorn, at the railing on the top deck.

The loneliness isn’t actually what bothers him. George is used to being alone, actually. During Dream’s two-year campaign on the seas, he’d studied by himself, practiced fighting by himself, moped by himself. 

There had been no one else to talk to. George’s other friends—Sap, Bad, even Quackity—had all been far too busy with their own engagements during those two years to devote too much time to George. He doesn’t blame them; they’d all headed their separate ways, bright-eyed and ready to make a difference in the world. 

Sapnap had left first. He had enlisted in the Royal Navy—something he’d always dreamed about as a kid— and risen through the ranks until he served on the very same ship as Dream. The two of them were lethal together, working in a scary tandem. George shudders to think of the pirate crews that had taken one look at Dream and Sapnap and surrendered immediately.

Even with Sapnap’s keenly felt absence, Bad was incredibly busy with his apothecary work—he’d badgered a well-known doctor of medicine and the sciences into taking Bad on as an apprentice, which didn’t leave the budding student with too much extra time to spend. 

And as for Quackity… well, he’d been busy running a kingdom, hadn’t he? For all that George would defend the king, he can admit that Schlatt isn’t always the most diligent ruler. A lot of the royal duties tended to fall on Quackity during those two years. 

_Maybe Quackity’s betrayal has been a long time coming. Maybe Schlatt’s temporary insanity was only the straw that broke the camel’s back._

He pushes that thought away as soon as it comes. It’s fine. George doesn’t blame his friends now, and he didn’t at the time, either. But for all his good intentions, the memory still _hurts_. It’s not the sharp pain of a wound; no, he feels hollow, like he’s craving a presence that isn’t there.

Being a prisoner on the _L’manburg,_ however, is a different story.

One by one, he sees the crew—who had previously regarded him with thinly veiled scorn and not a small amount of suspicion—begin to approach him, opening up in conversation like a sunflower turning towards the sun. He plucks names out of the air: Tubbo, Eret, Niki, Fundy, Jack, and several more pirates whose faces begin to brighten when they spot George.

And Quackity. Of _course._ It’s not that George hadn’t expected the traitor to show his face eventually—though he’s surprised that the occasion had come so soon. Quackity watches George interact with the pirates on the _L’manburg_ from a safe distance _,_ scowling all the while. He’s clearly in a sulk over something big—George catches a few curse words on the wind.

The first time that George actually approaches Quackity after his unorthodox arrival on the _L’manburg,_ one evening on the main deck, Tommy has to come between them. He’s surprisingly adept at it, too, pulling George away from Quackity with a yell of frustration. “You two are fucking maniacs!” the kid shouts. He’s not wrong. “What the hell?!”

George ignores them, glowering at Quackity from the prison of Tommy’s grip. They’ve drawn a crowd. A pirate that he recognizes as his new friend Niki shoots him an apologetic look from across the deck. “You traitorous piece of shit!” George grinds out angrily.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Quackity says with his arms over his chest, smirking, but the expression doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Be nice.”

George scoffs. “ _Nice?_ You’re the one who fucking kidnapped me!”

“To be fair, I _was_ just following Wilbur’s orders.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re hopeless.”

“Thank you!”

“It wasn’t a compliment!”

“Gentlemen, I think this is getting a _little_ bit out of hand,” Tommy says with a shit-eating grin. “I hate to break up a budding romance—”

“Oh, fuck you, Tomathy,” Quackity says, but there’s no heat in the words.

“—but it’s time for Gogy’s beddy-byes.” Tommy grabs his forearm and hauls him away from Big Q towards the captain’s cabin. “Say goodnight, Gogy.”

“I will _kill_ you,” George seethes as he suffers the embarrassment of being marched to his nightly prison. There are a few snickers from the crew members they pass. “I will kill you, and bury you in an unmarked grave, and no one will ever fucking miss you.”

“Whatever you say, Gogy,” Tommy says absentmindedly.

George wants to throw himself over the side of the _L’manburg._ It would probably hurt less than this, to be honest. “Would you stop fucking calling me ‘Gogy’?!”

Tommy smirks. “Sure, Gogy.”

It hasn’t been all fun and games on the _L’manburg,_ though. Every evening, just after the sun sets, Tommy seeks him out with the intention of returning George to his captivity. It had been part of the deal George made with Wilbur, after all—free reign on the ship during the day in return for playing nice when they come to lock him away at night. He wouldn’t mind nearly so much if it weren’t _Tommy_ doing the locking away.

George has known a few irritating sixteen-year-olds in his time, but none come anywhere close to Tommy. The kid seems to know just how to get underneath George’s skin with only a few well-placed words. If only he weren’t quite so _good_ winding George up.

Tommy’s friend Tubbo—another child dragged into the needless perils of war, George thinks scathingly—is, surprisingly, Tommy’s complete opposite. When Tommy introduces Tubbo to George for the first time, while glaring at George as if to say, _be nice,_ Tubbo gives George a huge grin and begins chattering on about practically everything.

“You’re friends with Dream?!” he exclaims when Tommy explains exactly who George is (conveniently leaving out the part that George is here against his will, of course). “That’s insane! Do you know how many battles he’s won? His strategies are _incredible,_ oh my God, I can’t believe you’re friends with him!”

“Simp,” Tommy mutters underneath his breath. When Tubbo turns to punch his friend lightly in the arm, the golden hoop earring in his ear catches the light and reflects it easily. There’s a matching earring in Tommy’s ear, but the piercing is considerably less well-done.

George frowns. These two clearly have history, despite their young age. He wonders just what they’ve been through together to forge such an undying and clearly unbreakable friendship.

“I can’t believe you convinced Dream’s best friend to join our side!” Tubbo crows now, still grinning like a maniac at his best friend. “That’s insane!” With that exclamation, he goes off on yet another tangent regarding the _L’manburg_ ’s numbers, Dream’s talent, Wilbur’s plans, and George has to struggle to keep up.

Raising an eyebrow, George shoots Tommy a look that says _I can’t believe you didn’t tell your best friend that you paid Quackity to kidnap me._

Tommy rolls his eyes, hissing, “We didn’t pay him!” underneath his breath.

George only raises an eyebrow and murmurs, “Keeping Tubbo out of the loop? Not cool, man.”

Tommy avoids his gaze and loudly directs the subject of conversation away from Dream and George and toward bees. Evidently, this is enough to distract Tubbo, whose entire face lights up at the concept of small furry flying creatures.

It turns out that the younger boy used to be a beekeeper. George learns this fact after a few more minutes of Tubbo’s bright, excited chattering. He also learns that Tubbo’s farm was destroyed fairly recently—only a month into Schlatt’s War. The conflict had erupted between Tubbo’s small island region and Schlatt’s power-hungry kingdom within a matter of weeks, and Tubbo’s property had clearly been collateral damage.

George’s fists clench at his sides. He knows, theoretically, that many people were hurt by Schlatt’s greedy quest for expansion. He knows that farms were destroyed, that families were split up, that blood ran through the streets just like in his dream. He shouldn’t feel so upset about Tubbo’s plight.

But he _does,_ goddamnit, because Tubbo is a child whose entire life and livelihood was ripped away from him by Jschlatt. 

Tommy notices George staring at Tubbo and shoots him an incredulous look. George turns away, flushing, and resolves not to think of it again.

Little by little, George grows far more comfortable on board the _L’manburg._ He emerges from his protective shell, talking and laughing with the other pirates. Some of them tease him mercilessly about his relationship with Dream—just as Wilbur had said they would—and he takes it in stride, trying not to think too hard about the dream that had plagued him upon his arrival here. 

Still, every day George holds out hope that Dream will track him down, find him, and pull George roughly into his arms. He’s far too aware of the fact that he’s left no trace behind. He and Quackity just vanished—does Dream even know that George is aboard his rival’s pirate ship? Wilbur is purposefully vague when George demands an answer, giving him non-answer after non-answer until George finally gives up.

The small flame of hope still burns brightly in George’s chest, though. Dream is _incredibly_ smart, brilliantly talented. If there’s anyone who can piece together the mystery of George’s disappearance, it’s Dream. He just hopes that it happens sooner rather than later.

The crew of the _L’manburg_ don’t suspect his subversive activities yet, though, and that’s all that matters for the moment. There’s actually only one member of the crew who George keeps avoiding—besides Big Q and Tommy, of course. Whenever he spots the now-familiar flash of pink hair, he instantly ducks his head, mumbles an excuse about not feeling well, and flees straight to Wilbur’s cabin. 

But Technoblade is _scary,_ okay? George had only ever seen the man once before the whole hanging debacle in the capital, and it had been from afar. Back when Techno had sworn a vague allegiance to the Navy—back when he and Dream considered each other allies, at least, if not friends. 

Techno had been fully intent on taking down the leadership of a nearby kingdom. His goals had aligned, however briefly, with Dream’s. And so he’d been given a letter of marque from Schlatt’s own hand and set off at Dream’s side.

That had been three years ago. George remembers the way Dream had looked after his negotiations with Techno—flushed, grinning, like nothing else gave him greater pleasure than the eradication of a shared enemy. Maybe nothing else did. 

But George had personally stumbled upon the other man sparring with Dream on one of the training courts, at some point during Techno’s stay in the capital. The two men had been laughing, faces sweaty from exertion, and George quickly ducked out of the room. His cheeks flamed, almost painfully. He didn’t want to interrupt their moment.

Of course, Technoblade doesn’t make it easy for George to avoid him now. He makes a point of showing up everywhere that George goes—in the canteen for breakfast, on the deck in the afternoon when George ends up in a practice duel with Eret, and even in the evening when Tommy drags George back to his prison. He doesn’t engage George in conversation; he only meets George’s gaze evenly, allowing George to scrutinize him without any judgment.

The reckoning with Technoblade comes sooner than George had expected it to. The day starts like any other—George wakes to the gentle rumble of Wilbur’s snores from across the room. He shifts in his borrowed hammock, righting himself once he’s freed from the excess of fabric. His feet are light on the creaky floor, and he makes it across the room quickly. George taps softly on the door, waiting for Tommy to free him from his captivity.

Tommy, unfortunately, has developed a sixth sense that allows him to tell exactly where George is at all times. It’s vaguely terrifying, but at least it allows George to be freed from his prison sooner rather than later. Sure enough, after a moment, George hears the patter of footsteps on the deck outside of the cabin door.

The lock clicks free, but the face that greets George when the door opens is not, however, that of a grinning sixteen-year-old. Technoblade levels him a bored look, eyes calculating. George takes him in slowly, feeling his stomach drop.

Techno’s long pink hair is tucked back neatly in a braid that trails down his back. He’s dressed plainly in a white shirt and a dark robe. Amidst the darkness of the night outside, he’s almost invisible.

There’s no other word for it—Techno is absolutely _covered_ in jewelry. Several necklaces are hung around his neck like trophies; his fingers are decked out in gold and silver rings alike; his arms rattle with the tinny sound of bracelets when he steadies himself against the doorframe.

He leans against it with an easy grace, his eyes flicking over George’s frame lazily. “Good morning,” he drawls. Sharp canines peek through his lips when he speaks. George feels so incredibly small compared to Techno’s towering frame. “The child couldn’t make it, so he sent me instead.”

“Tommy?”

Techno gives a slow nod. “One and the same.”

George raises an eyebrow and brushes past Techno roughly, squeezing his way out of the room until he’s standing on the deck. He heads straight to the railing, wincing when he hears Techno’s footsteps trailing after him.

It’s completely dark outside. The sun hasn’t even come up yet—the ship is lit dimly, and only by several lanterns, hung at random intervals along the deck. The light casts strange shadows over Techno’s face when George turns to face him, glowering.

“What are you, my bodyguard?!”

Techno shrugs, coming to stand beside George at the rail. The wind whips at the wisps of hair that have escaped his neat braid. “No.”

“Then fuck off.” George’s voice is like hardened steel—tough, sure, but brittle at the same time. Bound to snap if he pushes too far. “Kindly.”

Techno hums noncommittally and settles himself at George’s side, leaning forward on the rail. This close, George can see the silver-white scars that line the other man’s hands, trailing over battle-hardened skin until they finally disappear under Techno’s sleeves. “You’re Dream’s friend, aren’t you?”

The words stop George in his tracks. It’s the lack of accusation in Techno’s voice that surprises him the most, to be honest. It’s been a while since somebody simply acknowledged George as Dream’s _friend,_ without reading too much into the intricacies of their relationship. It’s refreshing, if he’s being honest.

“No wonder you’re pissed at me,” Techno says, still staring off across the horizon. Waves crash against the side of the _L’manburg_ in a steady rhythm, almost hypnotic, as the sky turns blue with the promise of almost-dawn. “I’m a little surprised you didn’t come and threaten me sooner, to be honest.”

George snorts, amused despite himself. “You _want_ me to threaten you?”

“I want you to cut the crap,” Techno says, voice bored. George’s stomach does an odd series of flips. “I’m not some little Navy defector you can trick into feeling guilty. Dream knew full well what he was getting into when I agreed to his terms three years ago. He knew I wasn’t loyal to the King from the start.”

George blinks. “You weren’t?”

Techno shoots him a hard look. “If there’s any man in this world who is truly loyal to Schlatt,” he drawls, “I haven’t met him yet.”

And with that, he pushes away from the rail, clearly intent on ending the conversation. George flushes.

“Technoblade?” he says, just before the other man can descend the steps and vanish into the hold of the ship. “What—what does Wilbur have on you?”

“What?”

“Why would you betray Dream?” George presses. His heart is pounding. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this bold. “He’s done nothing to hurt you.”

Techno levels him with an unyielding, almost pitying look. “It’s all about Big Brother, kid,” he says, sounding incredibly tired. “They’re always watching you. Schlatt, Dream… all of ‘em. The least I can do is fight back.”

And with that, he disappears down the stairs. His receding footsteps leave George feeling the loneliest he’s ever felt since his arrival on the _L’manburg._

“Hurry, Dream,” he says quietly to himself, watching the sun begin to peek over the horizon. “Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments are much appreciated and fuel the writing machine!! stay safe everyone <3


	3. Rapport

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which George’s disappearance spurs Dream to reckless action, Techno takes advantage of the opportunity to teach George a few tricks, and the _L’Manburg_ makes her way towards port.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "i will update every week," i say, like a lying liar who lies. updates should be more regular now but don’t quote me on that. 
> 
> also please check out the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3oD2Cyjbnsyvv7158S0Fni?si=eB6yV6gLQx2PsRQKB1L0yQ) i made for this fic!! i listen to it constantly while writing so it'd definitely good background music for reading this chapter.
> 
> i'm very sorry for disappearing off the face of the earth for two months, but here: have chapter three.

The door to George’s chambers flies open easily under the force of a sharp kick, almost knocked off its hinges, and Dream’s heart jumps into his throat.  He holds back a curse when the room proves empty after a quick scan of its contents, adjusting his grip on the sword in his hand. 

Because George is gone. George is _gone—_ disappeared with no trace. Dream stares at the bed, neatly made, which looks as if no one has slept here in days. It’s clear that _George_ hadn’t slept here last night, at the very least—whatever his business was with Quackity, the evening must have taken an ominous turn.

After falling asleep at his desk for the second time this week, waiting for George to return, Dream had woken up this morning with awful trepidation in his gut. He’d stared at the ceiling for five minutes, wincing at the pain in his neck, and tried to quell the rising anxiety that threatened to overwhelm him. All to no avail. When George hadn’t shown up for breakfast, Dream _knew_ that something was horribly wrong. He’d excused himself and slipped through the palace hallways quietly, keeping an eye out for his childhood friend with no luck. 

“Sir?” comes a voice from down the hallway, jerking him out of thought. Dream whirls around, biting words on his tongue, and stops when he sees one of the junior officers. He can hold his tongue for now; the man looks harried enough without the vitriol of his Admiral to boot. 

“Sir!” the junior officer gasps again as he comes to a stop in front of George’s quarters. “We’ve checked the Prime Minister’s quarters.”

“And?” Dream demands. He knows he looks intimidating—the ceramic mask from his days at sea is firmly in place, hiding his true expression from the younger officer. When he puts it on, he becomes something else: something otherworldly, something  _ terrifying.  _ The man—no, the  _ god _ from the rumors.

The officer shifts in his stance. “Nothing. He’s long gone.”

Dream does not hold back his curses this time. He slams the blade in his hand between the floorboards with practiced precision so that the hilt is in easy reach, and growls, “I want every inch of this palace searched. Get all the men you have. If Quackity is here, you come find me, and you tell me  _ first _ . Not the King. Capiche?”

The man looks like he might piss himself, but he nods faintly before scurrying back down the corridor. Dream laughs humorlessly, running a hand through his hair.

It all looks mighty fucking suspicious, doesn’t it? Because Quackity is gone, too, vanished right alongside George. Dream was the last person in the entire palace to have seen either of them.  _ Dream.  _ Not Schlatt.

God,  _ Schlatt. _ The King is going to hate this. He’ll think it has Dream’s name written all over it—the sort of power-hungry move a Grand Admiral would make. A reckless grab for the throne, tied up all neatly with string.

Dream puts his head in his hands and lets the aching loss tear through him for exactly ten seconds before he shuts it away again. He can’t afford the distraction of emotion here. If George and Quackity really have been kidnapped, then he has limited time to find them.

“Dream?” comes another voice, and Dream’s head snaps up almost immediately. His eyes finally focus on a figure in the doorway—a man dressed neatly in a white uniform coat, his black hair curling slightly at the edges and held back with a familiar white headband. “God, bro, you look like shit.”

Almost on autopilot, Dream takes two steps towards him before he’s throwing his arms around Sapnap, embracing the other man tightly. Sapnap lets out a soft  _ oof,  _ but he returns the hug with a grin.

“Sapnap,” Dream says in disbelief as he extricates himself from the hold after a moment, holding the other man at arms length with his hands on Sapnap’s shoulders. He scans Sapnap’s face, looking for signs of injury from his last undercover mission. There’s a new scar on his chin—a nasty one, from the looks of it—but other than that and the signs of exhaustion that are clear around his eyes, he looks no worse for wear. “What the hell? When did you get back?!”

“Last night,” Sap admits, looking a little sheepish. He bats Dream’s hands away, grimacing. “Dude, stop, I’m not fragile.”

“You look exhausted,” Dream says pointedly, but he obliges, dropping his hands from Sapnap’s shoulders. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“Yesterday,” Sap says after a pause.

“You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not,” Sapnap says, like the lying liar he is. “It’s classified.”

“I’m literally the Grand Admiral!”

“King’s orders,” Sapnap says, as if he’s trying to sound apologetic. Clearly, though, he's enjoying the fact that he can hold information over _Dream’s_ head for once. Sapnap glances around the room—Dream can pinpoint the exact moment his eyes land on George’s empty bed, then the kicked-in door. Sap clearly puts two-and-two together, because he asks, “Where’s George?”

Dream tenses. “Not here,” he says tightly, and Sapnap rolls his eyes.

“Come on, bro, that’s obvious.” He taps his fingers nervously against his thigh before he says, “What’s wrong? Is he missing?”

Dream lets the dam break. He sinks to his knees, pulls the mask off, and chokes out, “He’s gone.”

He doesn’t have to look up to know that Sapnap’s expression contorts, first in surprise and then in anger. “He ran away?”

“Not sure,” Dream admits, swallowing thickly. “Last time I saw him—last night, maybe around midnight?—he was talking to Quackity about something important. They went to Q’s study together, but now they’re both missing.” The words taste like bile in his throat.

Sapnap makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Did you check Quackity’s quarters?”

“The guard did,” Dream says. He hesitates. “Sapnap, I think—I think there’s something bigger going on here. Something huge.” His stomach does a flip when he voices his thoughts aloud—will Sapnap come to the same conclusion as Schlatt regarding Dream’s guilt?

_ Of course not,  _ he chides himself.  _ You’re being ridiculous. _

“Clearly,” Sapnap scoffs, and the coil of unease in Dream’s stomach unwinds at the word. “Two high-ranking members of the nobility go missing in one night? Something is definitely not right here.”

Dream’s lips quirk up in a smirk. “Technically, Quackity isn’t nobility.”

“You know what I meant,” Sap says in exasperation, waving a hand. “That’s not the point. Come on. Sitting here and talking isn’t gonna bring George back any sooner.”

“You want to help?” Dream asks in surprise—he hadn’t expected Sapnap to volunteer like this.

Sapnap shoots him an incredulous look. “Of course I do,” he says matter-of-factly, his tone offering no further argument. “Are you serious? The minute I get back to the capital, I find out that my best friend is  _ missing— _ along with the goddamn Prime Minister—and that your little execution went awry, and you think I  _ don’t  _ want to tear this city apart to find him?”

Dream winces at the memory of the execution. Sapnap is completely serious for once, with no trace of his usual joking tone.  _ He’s scared,  _ Dream realizes. Scared for George, terrified of what Quackity’s absence might mean, afraid that it all will point back to Dream. “Far point,” Dream says, clearing his throat and jerking his mind away from the dangerous line of thought. “Let’s get to it then.”

Sapnap’s smile is a bright flash of teeth, more a sharp smirk than anything else. “Bring it on,” he says, baring his incisors, and Dream obliges.

* * *

Dream  _ hates  _ letters.

It’s not a mere dislike, either; it’s a bone-deep loathing, a tension that curls in the bottom of his stomach and refuses to uncoil. He  _ detests  _ letters. He hates the way his stomach swoops and panic hums through his veins at the sight of innocuous pale white envelopes.

To be fair, it’s quite a reasonable hatred. Dream has received far too many death notices through the mail for someone his age. Young men, Navy soldiers, and old men alike—it's never gotten any easier to read those opening lines. Shallow condolences for a death that came far too soon. Hell, Dream has  _ written  _ those letters before, back when he was out at sea, mourning members of his crew who had passed far too soon.

So he stares down at the pile of letters on Quackity’s desk and resists the urge to scream.

If only Schlatt were more capable. If only there were people to delegate this work to. If only  _ Dream _ weren’t the one investigating Quackity’s disappearance, stuck here in an office while Sapnap stands guard outside. 

But there’s no way George defected. He has to give his friend the benefit of the doubt here, and George has never given Dream—or any of them, really—the impression that he wasn’t fully content in Schlatt’s kingdom. No, kidnapping is the only possible answer.

_ But who would know exactly who to kidnap in order to get to me like this?  _

He pushes away the maelstrom of worry, panic, and intrusive thoughts that threatens to overwhelm him and turns his attention back to the desk instead.  Quackity, Dream thinks dryly, is probably the least organized person in this entire Empire. He can hardly see the desktop—every square inch is covered in papers, spare ink, quills, posters. It’s a mess. He doesn’t know how he’ll find anything in this chaos, but it can’t hurt to try.

So he sits down in the wooden chair, moves closer to the desk, and begins to sort through the correspondence.  It’s a lot of words, and most of it is completely benign—troop reports and food production and simpering letters from nobles that make Dream want to throw up all over again. He throws the paper on the floor, sighing as he puts his head in his hands.  He wants to scream again. It’s no use—he should be  _ out there,  _ helping with the physical search. Instead, he’s stuck in this stuffy study reading through letters.

Dream goes to stand up, but something on the now-uncovered desk catches his eye—a discoloration in the wood, just on top of the inkwell. It’s probably nothing, just from continued use, but his heart catches in his throat all the same. Dream quickly slides the desktop back until he can reach his hand down and feel in the inkwell.

He’s about to give up when his thumb brushes against a tangible knot in the wood. Breath catching, he knocks on the surface—it rings out, hollow—before he presses down on the knot.

Something within the desk clicks. Dream almost stumbles with haste when he pulls the drawer open to reveal a hidden compartment at the back, unseen the first time he’d checked this drawer and pulled out its contents.

“Fuck,” he says aloud as he pulls the contents of the secret compartment out to inspect them in the light. There’s not much—Quackity’s shiny Prime Minister badge, polished and buffed to perfection; a missive from Schlatt that Dream sets aside, clearly useless; and a second letter on fine paper marked only:  _ To Q,  _ with a set of initials scrawled lazily on the back when he flips it over— _ WS. _

Dream’s heart does another series of cartwheels at those initials, and he scrambles to open the letter and scan it for details.  His eyes fall on the final lines as if by magnetism. 

_ It’s imperative that you act with haste, Big Q,  _ the letter reads _. Bring George to the docks by oh-three-hundred hours; we’ll be waiting. Breathe no word of this to anyone, do you understand me? _

_ Burn this letter once you have memorized its contents. _

_ Yours truly, _ _  
_ _ Captain Wilbur Soot _

It falls from his grasp, carried by a draft of air in the direction of the door, as Dream lets out a particularly offensive series of expletives that would make even  _ Tommy  _ blush.

“Dream?” calls Sapnap. Dream hears the chair push back from across the hall with an awful  _ screech,  _ and footsteps resound on the wooden floorboards until he feels the weight of Sapnap’s hand fall heavy on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

The anger tastes like metal in Dream’s mouth, bitterly sharp as he chokes out, “It’s the  _ L'manburg.” _

Sapnap frowns, but he bends down to pick up the discarded letter from the floor. It takes him a few seconds to read, but when he says the telltale line he lets out a soft,  _ “Damn,”  _ his body going tense.

“Quackity was conspiring with them all along,” Dream says out loud. His nails dig into his palms, forming small red crescents where his fingers dig into the flesh. “He was a fucking  _ spy.” _

“Quackity took George?”

“Quackity took George,” Dream confirms, almost buzzing with rage. He stumbles out of the room, the letter in one hand and Sapnap’s sleeve in the other, with Schlatt’s own missive to Quackity forgotten on the desk.  _ This changes everything. _ “Come on. We need to talk to the King.”

The King, it seems, is unsympathetic to their plight. 

He is also slightly drunk, which is not generally unusual for Schlatt. It  _ is  _ unusual, however, for the King to be slurring his words this early in the day. Dream’s fists clench when he enters the throne room, Sapnap at his side, and falls down on one knee.

“Your Majesty,” he says, a little grudgingly. Sapnap kneels and repeats the words underneath his breath.

Schlatt, who is reclining sideways on the throne, throws the hand that isn’t holding a bottle out in welcome. “Gentlemen!” he says, and a cold cruelness resides underneath the levity of his tone. “Dream— _ Sapnap. _ Great to see you again, as always. What’ve you got for me today, fellas?”

Sapnap shoots Dream an incredulous glance, as if he’s saying  _ this is your king?! _ It’s a look which the blond ignores. 

“Quackity’s gone,” Dream says immediately. He doesn’t need to be asked twice. “He kidnapped Geor—Lord NotFound. Under Wilbur Soot’s orders.” He pulls the letter from his pocket and steps forward to hand it to Schlatt. The King takes it, raking his eyes over the document. His eyebrows raise as he reads the treasonous words. “I want your permission to pursue the  _ L'manburg. _ ”

Schlatt taps a finger against his temple, almost as if he’s pretending to think about it, before he says, “No.”

Dream stares.  _ “No?”  _ he echoes, feeling as if Schlatt’s just pulled the rug out from underneath him.

“I have  _ plans,”  _ Schlatt says ominously, flicking the letter to the side so that it lays discarded on the floor, “and I certainly won’t have you fucking them up.”

“This is your Prime Minister we’re talking about!” Dream explodes.

“Ex-Prime Minister, actually,” Schlatt says with a shit-eating grin. Dream levels him with a confused look just as his head starts to pound with an oncoming headache. “I had him fired last night.”

Dream feels like the floor has fallen out from underneath him as he stares up at the King, eyes wide.

“Isn’t the Prime Minister an elected position?” Sapnap says, unaware of Dream’s horror. Watching Sapnap taunt the King is like watching two trains colliding with no brake in sight. 

Schlatt raises an eyebrow. “So?”

Sap snorts. “So you  _ can’t _ fire him, he was chosen by the people, that’s how democracy works—”

“I can, and I did. Problem solved.”

“That’s not how it works!” Sapnap sounds like he’s about to pop a blood vessel, clearly upset with the King’s disdain for the law. “Quackity was elected by the people! For the people!”

“Quackity,” the King drawls, “was a fucking  _ traitor.  _ I dealt with him in kind.”

“You obviously didn’t do it fast enough,” Sapnap snaps, “seeing as he  _ kidnapped _ George—” 

“Sapnap, enough,” Dream says, putting a calming hand on his friend’s arm as he cuts the other man off. Sapnap shoots him a furious look, but Dream ignores it and surges on ahead recklessly as he meets the king’s eyes. “Schlatt—Your Majesty—George has been missing for less than twenty-four hours. There’s still time to catch up with the pirates who did this.”

“And I don’t doubt your ability to deal with the fuckers,” Schlatt says, grinning coldly, “but my answer is still  _ no.” _

Dream clenches his fists. “Do you think,” he grinds out, raising his chin, “that I won’t raze this city to the  _ ground?!”  _ The air around them thickens with tension, heavy and unyielding, as he holds the King’s gaze.  _ I won’t back down, you bastard,  _ Dream thinks furiously as he watches the cogs turn in Schlatt’s brain. The silence stretches out between them.

“Those are dangerous words, my friend,” Schlatt drawls finally, raising the bottle to his lips.

Dream holds his gaze as he drinks. “They’re the truth.”

“Dream,” hisses Sapnap, clearly uncomfortable at the threat in Dream’s voice despite the fact that Sapnap was the one being insolent only a few moments prior. This is different, though. It hangs in the air between the three of them, tauntingly real.

“My answer is no,” Schlatt says, words hot to the touch. “If you’ve got a problem with that, you’ve got a problem with _me_. And you know what we do to traitors around here.”

Dream swallows and inclines his head. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he grits out between his teeth.

“Good.” Schlatt’s eyes rake over him, unfocused but still deadly serious. “I’d hate for you to meet your end in some awful accident or something. You know how it is these days, huh, Dream?”

Dream goes completely still, the dangerous words ringing in his ears. “Excuse me?” he manages.

“You heard me. What with Quackity gone and all,” Schlatt drawls, looking amused. “Am I understood, Admiral?”

_ “He can’t just say that!”  _ Sapnap hisses to Dream, who elbows him in the ribs. Thankfully, the words aren’t loud enough to be heard by anyone else; they probably wouldn’t make it out of here alive if so.

Dream ignores Sapnap and grits out, “Understood,” trying his hardest to ignore the cold smile that stretches across Schlatt’s face.

He can’t get out of that throne room fast enough. When he finally makes it back to his quarters, Sapnap hot on his heels, he practically collapses onto the bed.

“We have to go after George,” he says as soon as he hears the door close behind Sapnap with a  _ click.  _

Sap snorts. “No shit,” he says. “I can’t believe you just let him threaten you like that, dude, what the fuck?”

“He’s the  _ King,”  _ Dream says pointedly, muffled into his pillow.

“And you had a sword!” When Dream glances up to glare at his friend, Sapnap makes a few vague gestures that could be loosely interpreted as inappropriate. “You could’ve taken him!”

“He’s the King,” Dream repeats, “what did you want me to do, stab him?”

Sapnap gives him a look that screams  _ that’s exactly what i wanted you to do!  _ but says, “Maybe not in the throne room. Would’ve gotten messy.”

“I can’t believe he said that,” Dream says grouchily. “What does he mean, he has  _ plans?!” _

“The dude is scary as fuck,” Sapnap says serenely with a small nod, as if he’s agreeing with himself. 

“I can’t listen to him, though,” Dream says, more to himself than to Sapnap. “George is in trouble—hell, he might be  _ injured.”  _ The thought makes him feel lightheaded, like he’s going to throw up, but he forces himself to meet Sapnap’s gaze. “We gotta go after them.”

Sapnap grins and says, “I thought you’d never ask. When do we leave?”

It turns out that committing treason is disastrously easy. Sapnap agrees to recruit a crew for their departure—”Just trust my judgement!” he complains, grinning in that oh-so-dangerous way—and Dream lets him. If anyone knows who to trust, it’s Sapnap. Spending the last two years undercover does wonders for a guy’s trust issues. He expects Sapnap to choose a few battle-hardened men for this journey—mercenaries who won’t ask questions.

So when Dream meets Sapnap at the docks early the next morning under the cloak of darkness, hood pulled low to hide his face, he’s surprised to find that the other man is accompanied by the familiar timbre of voices and laughter. Sapnap is tucked away from the main wharf, hidden behind a stack of barrels, but the voices carry easily over to Dream—Sapnap’s talking about  _ George,  _ Dream realizes, explaining the situation behind the other man’s disappearance. Heart in his throat, he rounds the corner, stopping in tracks when the sharp relief of recognition floods through his veins.

“Bad?!” he exclaims as soon as his gaze falls on the group, and then: “Ant? Karl? What are you guys doing here?!”

The men all turn in surprise at the sound of their names, but Bad’s face breaks out into a broad smile as soon as he sets eyes on his friend. “Dream!” he says in excitement, nearly rugby-tackling Dream to the ground in what seems to be a hug. Dream stumbles, but embraces his friend tightly for a moment before he pulls back to grin at Bad. 

“Bad, what are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be studying!”

“I was,” Bad says, sounding characteristically cheerful, “but I got Sapnap’s message and Ponk said I could come! So I packed a few things, and, well… here I am.” His eyes flash with amusement at the mention of his mentor—Ponk, a fellow healer and apothecary, who took Bad underneath his wing only a few years ago. Bad’s come a long way since he was the scrappy kid the Palace Guard recruited off the streets all those years ago, Dream thinks fondly.

“You look awful,” Ant tells Dream bluntly, clapping him on the shoulder. Dream startles. “Good to see you, by the way.”

“Rude,” Dream scoffs, but his lips quirk up in a smile despite himself. "You too, man."

“Hi, Dream!” Karl chirps from his position on one of the barrels. He’s got an arm looped around Sapnap’s neck, grinning up at Dream. “We were just talking about you!”

“Ah,” Dream says faintly as his eyes land on Sapnap, who looks pensive as he surveys his friends. When Sapnap had said he’d recruit a crew for their expedition to find George, Dream never expected to see his  _ friends _ here _ ,  _ dragged away from their own lives only to be caught up in a reckless manhunt. “Were you?”

“Were you followed?” Sapnap demands before Karl can answer. He extricates himself from Karl’s arm around his neck and strides towards Dream, crossing his arms over his chest. Sap shifts his weight so that he’s leaning back on his heels and gazes at Dream impassively, as if he’s trying to read the Admiral’s mind.

“No,” Dream scoffs—he’d been extra careful when he snuck out of the palace, and he’d doubled back twice in order to make sure no one had been following him. Even if he’s more used to combat and espionage on the seas, he’s pretty damned good at it on land, too. “Of course not.”

“Good,” Sapnap says, and his lips curl up into a vicious grin that looks like it could cut through steel. “Let’s steal a ship, then.”

It turns out that stealing a ship is also really much easier than Dream had thought it would be. Even in the darkness that comes before dawn, the docks are patrolled by Navy soldiers, but nobody shoots them a second look as they slip into the shadows one by one, eyeing the ships in dock around them.  They can’t steal anything too large—they only have a crew of five at present, and even if they manage to pick up a few men along the way, the larger Navy ships are out of the question completely. There’s a small schooner at the end of the docks, however, that Dream likes the look of, so he motions for the others to follow him.

Karl stumbles a little as Sapnap comes to a stop. He frowns and brushes his hair out of his eyes, exclaiming, “Where are we—” 

“Be _ quiet,” _ Sapnap hisses, silencing Karl with a look. At the other man’s hurt expression, he softens his tone to whisper, “I don’t want the soldiers to hear us. Just follow me, bro, there’s less patrols on this side of the docks.”

Dream raises an eyebrow at the two of them, confused at the strange dynamic that seems to hang in the air between his old friends. Sapnap’s eyes seem to linger worriedly on Karl as he moves forward, checking around the corner before he motions all four of them across.

The battlements that surround the city’s seaward side loom menacingly in the distance—even from this far away, Dream can just about make out the phantom shine of the patrols’ torches, glimmering in the darkness. Schlatt had bumped security up after the failed execution; Dream didn’t protest the heightened military presence at the time, something which he sorely regrets, if only because less patrols would make this a whole lot easier.

Sapnap proves to be surprisingly agile at avoiding the soldiers on-duty; he slips through shadows like he’s never seen the light of day before, using proper Navy hand signals to direct them all as they dart across the docks. Finally, the five of them reach the small schooner, coming to a halt just before the gangplank and ducking behind another stack of barrels when voices carry over from on deck.

“What now?” Bad hisses, and Sapnap looks to Dream for the first time all morning.

Dream takes a second to think before he responds. “I’ll go first,” he says, trying to project confidence to his friends, “and I’ll see if I can talk them into abandoning ship.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Karl says playfully— _ this dumbass isn’t even in the Navy,  _ Dream thinks in amusement—and he throws Dream a sharp salute.

“Just try not to die,” Ant says with a smile that belies his words. 

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Dream shoots over his shoulder, and he ducks out of his hiding place and straightens up to board the ship. As his boots land solidly against the plank of wood, he pulls the hood of his cloak down so that his golden hair and ceramic mask are on full display.

There’s a few gasps from the sailors on board when they recognize him as the Grand Admiral—Dream’s mask is pretty much infamous, even among the Navy—and he shoots them the cocky, self-assured grin that he’s so famous for. Thankfully, there aren’t too many soldiers here; a small ship like this only takes half a dozen men to sail. “Morning, gentlemen,” Dream drawls as the sailors snap to attention, arms raised in crisp salutes. “Is your Captain aboard, by any chance?”

The sailors all look to their self-appointed leader—probably the First Mate, Dream thinks, judging by the medals that line the man's red coat. “Sam’s in his cabin,” the man says, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I can go—I can grab him for you, if you’d like?”

“No, that’s alright,” Dream says, trying not to sound too pleased—this will be much easier than he first thought. “I’m going to need a quick word. Would you folks mind gathering on the docks for a moment?”

The First Mate blinks in surprise, brow furrowing. “I, uh—you want us to evacuate the ship?” 

“Yes,” Dream says, and he holds the man’s horrified gaze until the First Mate flushes and looks away. “Those are my orders. Take the night off, all of you,” he adds, gesturing to the other men. They all look like Christmas has come early, eyes widening in pleased surprise at the strange order. “I’ll let your Captain know there’s been a change of plans, and that you guys aren’t to set sail tonight.”

The First Mate stares at him openly for a second before he manages a small, jerky nod. “Ah—yes. Yes, sir.”

“Then get to it,” Dream snaps, perhaps a little harsher than necessary, but it works—the soldiers nearly stumble in their haste to leave the ship, followed by the First Mate, who shoots a pensive look over his shoulder as he follows his men. It takes far too long for the redcoats to disappear from view; once they’re finally gone, he pulls the mask from his face with a grimace. After tying it to his belt, he taps his foot on the ground, impatient, and calls, “You can come out now, assholes.”

His friends emerge one by one, looking sheepish as they board the small yacht. “You sounded like you had the situation well in hand,” Bad says with a shit eating grin.

“Oh, fuck you,” Dream mutters, ignores Bad’s squeak of  _ “Language!”  _ that follows the sentiment. “Come on. We still have to deal with the Captain. Ant, Bad, Karl—I want you preparing to set sail. Get everything ready; we might need to make a quick escape.”

“Oh, no,” Bad says, sounding tired, “I don’t like that look in your eye—what are you planning, Dream?” When Dream just smirks, he turns to the others. “Ant, what the heck is Dream planning for this Captain?”

Ant shrugs. “Probably something involving a lot of blood,” he says, sounding amenable to the idea.

Dream cuts off Bad’s squawk of disapproval by saying, “Sapnap? You’re with me. Let’s make sure this Captain knows what’s good for him. If we need to deal with him, we will, but I’d prefer no bloodshed.”

“Whatever you say, Admiral,” Sapnap teases, emphasizing his words with a lazy salute. Dream decides not to tell Sapnap that Dream could have him hanged for disrespect, and instead starts off towards the Captain’s cabin. Sapnap scrambles after him, following closely at his heels.

The schooner’s small size means that there’s only one cabin at the stern of the ship—Dream eyes the door, embossed with Schlatt’s coat of arms, and then motions to Sapnap, drawing his sword. “You want to do the honors?”

“Hell yeah,” Sapnap says with a grin, and he gears himself up before he lands a solid kick in the center of the door. The hinges squeak as it flies open with a sharp  _ crack  _ of wood, and the Captain—a young man, probably around Dream or George’s age, with blond hair that looks almost green on the edges in the sunrise—lets out a yelp as he scrambles back.

“Are you the Captain?” Sapnap asks with a maniacal light in his eyes, grinning as he slides his own weapon from its sheath with a sharp echo of metal. 

“Who the hell are you?” the guy exclaims, rather than answering. He looks between them, clearly cataloging the two strangers. His eyes linger on Dream’s ceramic mask hanging off his belt, then at the telltale crest embroidered onto Sapnap’s cloak; he clearly puts two-and-two together, because his eyes widen and he lays a hand on the hilt of his word.

Dream would rather avoid a fight, considering they’re trying to leave the capital without the King’s notice, so he hisses, “Drop your weapon on the ground,” leveling his own weapon at the sailor. 

The guy doesn’t look too fazed, all things considered. He doesn’t argue as he pulls the sword out of its sheath and slowly places it on the floor, before straightening back up again with his hands raised.

“I asked you a question,” Sapnap says, a note of victory in his words.

“So did I,” the man counters, raising his chin in defiance. “You wanna tell me why you’re here? Or, better yet, enlighten me as to why  _ you _ , the Grand Admiral and his pet spy—”

“Hey!” Sapnap exclaims in sharp protest. Dream restrains a grin.

“—are sneaking around my ship like you’re not the head of the goddamn Navy?” Green eyes scan Dream’s face, searching. “Riddle me that, huh?”

“Just answer the goddamn question,” Sapnap hisses, clearly frustrated. “Are you the Captain or not?”

The man hesitates before nodding. He takes a tentative step forward, offering his hand before he says, “The name’s Sam. Welcome aboard, sir.”

Dream doesn’t hesitate before he reaches out and shakes his head. Sam’s grip is firm, hands calloused from his time on campaign. “Call me Dream,” he says, ignoring Sapnap’s muffled groan.

“Dream, then,” Sam says. He looks between them again, gaze measured, before he adds, “I’m guessing this isn’t a royally sanctioned visit.”

“How’d you know?” Sapnap asks with a wicked grin. Dream kicks him in the shin.

“Look, Sam,” he says, trying to be tactful as possible, “I’m gonna need you to do me a favor.”

Sam cocks his head, eyes the sword in Sapnap’s hand with clear caution, and asks, “Is this favor going to get me court-martialed?”

“No,” Dream says, at the exact same time that Sapnap chirps, “Yes!”

They look at each other in exasperation—at least, on Dream’s part—as Sam lets out a mournful noise. “Who am I kidding?” he says with a groan. “This is a terrible idea.”

“Your only other option is being tossed overboard,” Sapnap points out cheerfully. “How’d you like to go for a swim with the fishies, Sammy Boy?”

Sam glowers at him for a moment, fists clenching, before he sighs and the tension leaves his shoulders. “Fine,” he bites out. “You wanna tell me what I’m actually agreeing to, here?”

“We’re tracking the  _ L’manburg,”  _ Dream says, ignoring Sam’s sharp inhale at the mention of the infamous pirate ship. “They—they took something of ours. Someone. We need to get him back. With or without the King’s permission.”

Sam nods, expression thoughtful. “Sounds like a recipe for disaster and imminent death,” he says cheerfully. “Count me in.”

Dream blinks as Sapnap lets out a whoop of joy, sheathing his sword. “I  _ like _ this guy!” he exclaims, clapping Sam on the back as he steers the other man towards the deck of the ship. “Guys! Come meet Sam!”

So that settles it, then. Dream feels a weight lift off his chest when he realizes that he has  _ reinforcements  _ now. His friends’ presences are comforting to have at his side; he lets his gaze flick over each of them in turn as he follows Sapnap and Sam leisurely from the Captain’s cabin.

Bad, the healer; Sapnap, the incendiary; Karl, the anchor; Ant, the altruist. And now Sam, the captain. They’re a good crew, if a little rough around the edges from years spent apart. Good enough to track down the _L'manburg;_ good enough to get George back.

“I’m coming, George,” Dream mutters underneath his breath as he stares into the setting sun, fists clenched tightly around the railing. Around him, his friends call out to each other in whooping calls as they raise the sails, preparing for the journey ahead. “I’m coming.”

_ Just hang in there. _

* * *

Wilbur is a goddamn maniac.

George huffs and wipes the sweat from his forehead as he scrubs at the deck, sun beating down on his neck. His body is already showing the telltale effects of spending the last few weeks at sea—his arms, face, and neck are all tanned, fingers calloused with the physical work Wilbur’s been assigning him. 

When he’d asked Wilbur for something to do today—expecting the other man to ask for help with patching the sails, or tying the rigging—George had not expected the other man to hand him a bucket and rags.  _ But here I am,  _ he thinks viciously as he scrubs at a particularly obstinate bloodstone.  _ On my knees. Cleaning a piece of fucking  _ wood.

“You okay down there?” drawls a familiar voice, and George feels tension seep into his shoulders when Technoblade’s shadow looms over him from behind.

“What does it look like?” he grumbles, dousing the rag in the bucket again before he continues his work.

Techno sighs. “Come on, man. You gotta take a break sooner or later.”

“Not until I’ve finished,” George says stubbornly, even though his muscles are aching from the way he’s hunched over and his hands are raw. “Come back later.”

“Come on, George,” calls another voice. George glances over his shoulder to see Eret as the pirate waves at him. “You’ve been doing that for  _ hours.  _ Take a break.”

“Yeah, and a fat lot of help you've been,” George shoots back, but he straightens up in resignation. His back pops when he stretches, letting out a soft exhale.

Techno grins, and Eret continues to watch George and Techno from their perch, one leg slung lazily over the wooden railing as they shoot George a smile, though the expression doesn’t quite reach the pirate’s eyes.

Techno clears his throat, not-so-subtly demanding George’s attention—George’s head snaps up to see the other man studying him like a particularly tricky riddle. “Today is your lucky day, my friend,” Techno says.

“Yeah?” George says, heart in his throat.

“You need a distraction. Therefore, I,” Techno says with a dangerous grin, “am going to teach you how to fight. Grab Eret’s sword.”

George feels the blood drain from his face as he scrambles across the deck, taking the proffered sword from Eret clumsily. The hilt is cool against his palm, foreign—he’s unused to the weight of the blade in his hand. “I know how to fight,” he protests immediately.

Technoblade throws him a skeptical look. “Somehow, I highly doubt that,” he drawls, pulling his sword from its sheath with a sharp shriek of metal. George winces as Techno takes a few short steps back, hefts his sword a little higher, and says, “Let’s see, then.”

George frowns. “What—”

Techno darts forward even as the word leaves George’s lips, so quick that George almost misses it. He yelps, a very undignified noise leaving his throat as he brings Eret’s sword up to block Techno’s blade. The swords collide in a crash of steel, and the force behind the blow takes George by surprise—he barely manages to grit out, “What the hell are you doing?”

“You said that you know how to fight,” is the only answer Technoblade gives him. “So  _ fight.” _

The scuffle is over almost as soon as it begins. Techno disarms George embarrassingly fast; his sword falls to the ground with a clatter as Techno pins George to the wall with the flat of Techno’s blade against his throat. On the railing, Eret stifles laughter with a hand to their mouth.

“That,” Techno says, barely breaking a sweat, “was pathetic.”

George flushes angrily at the insult to his pride. “Well, we can’t all be mercenaries,” he snaps, jerking his chin up in defiance.

Techno seems bemused. “If you’re tryin’ to insult me,” he drawls, “you might want to try a bit harder than that.”

“You literally just tried to kill me!”

“Were you not listening to anything I just said?” Techno finally drops the sword, running a hand through his hair—he’d elected to wear it loose today, ruffling gently in the wind on deck. He looks at-ease here, George thinks. In his element for once. “I’m trying to teach you, since you  _ clearly  _ have no idea what you’re doin’.”

“I know what I’m doing!” George protests hotly.

Techno casts a wry look at him, and then at his sword on the ground. George scrambles to pick it up, face burning underneath Techno’s scrutiny. “Sure,” Techno says, sounding amused. “You evidently have this situation well in hand.”

“Oh, fuck you,” George gripes, but Techno is right and he knows it, though George doesn’t know if he can swallow his pride enough to let the pirate teach him. “Haven’t you done enough already?”

Techno does not rise to the bait. “Raise your sword,” he says, tightening his grip on the hilt. 

“Technoblade—”

“Raise. Your. Sword,” Techno grinds out. “Try again. Don’t let yourself be pinned this time.”

And again, he attacks. George fares a little better this time, lasting almost thirty seconds rather than the humiliating ten from before. When he’s sprawled on the ground with Techno’s sword at his neck, he splutters, “Yield! I yield!” and accepts the hand up that the other man gives him. 

Techno points out a few things as they continue sparring—commenting on George’s footwork, correcting his stance, and making generally insensitive jokes about George’s ability.  It’s not  _ George’s _ fault his abilities need work. He grew up sheltered, groomed only for his role as a future Lord. George’s education contained a lot of reading and mathematics and politics, and not so much swordfighting. 

It doesn’t mean that being knocked on his ass for the twentieth time in an hour isn’t incredibly embarrassing. Eret muffles another snicker, turning it into a cough, and George shoots them a pointed look before he picks himself up off the ground. 

“At least you’re not completely inept at this,” Techno remarks. He slams his sword into the crack between two boards on the deck so that he can lean on the blade, grinning. “You might actually have a shot at stayin’ alive long enough for Dream to rescue you.”

George blanches, and Techno and Eret both burst into laughter at the look on his face. “You two are hopeless,” George bites out as laughter resounds around the deck. 

His cheeks burn, and in an uncharacteristically fluid motion, he snatches Eret’s sword up from where it lies abandoned on the deck and storms over to the pirate. Eret looks taken aback as George pushes the blade into their hands, scowling. “I’m done,” he calls over his shoulder to Techno as he stalks away. “Find someone else to humiliate.”

“Aw, George,” Techno drawls, eyes flashing as his voice carries on the wind, “you’re the one throwin’ a tantrum right now.”

In lieu of a response, George gives him a timesaving gesture that relies heavily on his middle finger, right before he steps into Will’s cabin and slams the door shut so hard that it rattles the window pane.

* * *

Captain Wilbur Soot looks around his quarters, cast in the soft glow of the sunset that streams in through the small window, and thinks:  _ What a nice night for treason. _

The thought makes a laugh bubble up in his throat as he grabs a sheaf of papers off the desk and settles down on the bed to inspect the newest reports from his spies in the capital. He’s so fucking close to losing it—Will can feel his grip on reality slipping, even as he sits here watching the sunset.

Everything is going as planned. George has been settling in nicely—Wilbur thinks he saw Techno teaching the older man how to fight today on deck. He’d initially intended to kidnap George as insurance—keeping their ship out of Dream’s web—but he’s proving a good addition to the crew. It’s a pity he was brought up as a law-abiding citizen, Wilbur thinks wryly; George would make a fine pirate.

He’s not sure whether to trust this newfound success, seeing as the  _ L'manburg  _ has never been this lucky before, but Wilbur thinks it might be a new trend. The turning of a page, so to speak, in the history of Schlatt’s Empire.

Because while Schlatt’s advisors remain blind to his faults, the people speak up. Even though the capital seems to worship their King, all is not as it seems. Outside the capital, the people are fed up with Schlatt’s leadership. Families starve in silence, farms are taken by the government and requisitioned, and all the while newspapers praise their King. The thought of the blatant propaganda makes Wilbur sick to his stomach.

It’s time for rebellion. No, not rebellion— _ revolution.  _ These are the times of history books, come to life before him.

Wilbur has always struggled with his grasp on reality. He tends to live in his head a little too much, romanticizing the events of his daily life with a tangible disconnect from the real world. But even if his thoughts aren’t real, this revolution is.

_ Schlatt’s time is over,  _ he thinks, gazing over maps over the palace and the capital, over troop reports, over inventories and blackmail and  _ proof.  _ Proof that Schlatt is as corrupt as they come.  _ Schlatt’s time is over. It’s time for a new dawn. _

_ A new plot. _

_ To destroy Schlatt’s hold on the Empire. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i fucking did RESEARCH on what the hell a tern schooner is for this, so yall better appreciate it. not that the research actually made any of this more accurate lmaooo boat nerds pls yell at me in the comments.
> 
> kudos and comments are pogchamp


	4. Respect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which George gets himself into a bit of a pickle after the _L'manburg_ makes port and Techno wrestles with his past, coming to terms with what he’s willing to sacrifice for this rebellion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI GUYS IM SORRY FOR THE LATE UPDATE IVE BEEN SUPER BUSY WITH MOCK TRIAL <3<3 we have prelims next week n this one was getting long so i decided to just cut some of it and make chapter five longer. also thank you guys so much for 3k hits!! it means so much holy shit.
> 
> content warning for injury and blood (not in too much detail) and a character who passes out due to said injury

With port approaching rapidly, the entire crew is on edge with a buzz of excitement that seems to be contagious. George finds himself on deck most nights as they sail on their way, listening to fanciful stories about the last time _L’manburg_ made port. He snorts at the clearly made-up ones and raises an eyebrow at the ones that are altogether too plausible. 

He doesn’t doubt that Eret, drunk on _both_ _rum and life,_ as a grinning Tommy puts it, was once chased through the streets of a port town in a dress by a Royal Navy commodore. Hell, George is sure he would do much worse if he had to put up with Tommy for months on end. When he asks Eret about it, the pirate shoots him a mischievous grin and declines to comment, which only confirms George's suspicions. 

But the town—a small harbor called Port Topia, from what George can gather, surrounded by farmland—is a legend, and a living, breathing one to boot. George listens to the tales hungrily, forming a picture in his mind’s eye of the lawless town and its inhabitants.

Soon enough, the _L’manburg_ is making her way through the convoluted rock pools that lead to port—ones that are controlled by the tide, Tubbo informs George cheerfully, and will easily smash their ship to bits if Wilbur navigates them even the slightest bit off-course. George thanks Tubbo for the information and tries not to think too hard about the possibility of imminent death at Wilbur Soot’s hands. If he died here, what would his headstone even read? Who would mourn?

He comforts himself with the thought that _Tubbo_ would mourn him if the boy miraculously survived the collision. And Dream, of course, though he tries not to let his thoughts linger on his friend these days. There’s enough to deal with on the _L’manburg._ They need to disguise the ship for their trip ashore; painting over the name and repairing some of the damage on the side should do it. When George asks, Tubbo shows him the new flags they’ve procured for this very occasion, grinning.

When the _L’manburg_ finally pulls into the docks, slow and steady, and the entire crew busies themselves with their tasks, George lets out a sigh of relief at the sight of land. “God, I could use a drink,” he groans, slumping back so that his head hits the wooden wall with a _thump._ The act is easy to pull off: he closes his eyes just-so, lets his hair fall into his face, and resists the urge to peek. Hopefully, he sounds just pitiful enough to be believable.

The pirates around him exchange a pointed look. “Sure,” Eret says in concern, taking the bait hook, line, and sinker. When George’s eyes fly open, he’s met with an uncanny smile. “I’ll grab a pint with you.”

“Over my dead body,” Wilbur snaps from George’s other side, glaring at Eret. Eret’s expression hardens, but they don’t respond. George tenses a little—he drops the hard-done-to act, lets himself glower at the captain. 

Fundy coughs. “Will, come on—”

“The entire Navy’s looking for him,” Wilbur hisses, motioning to George as he exchanges an exhaustedly pointed look with the other pirate. George knows he’s tired of staying awake, choosing routes that evade the Navy patrols looking for George. “The entire fuckin’ Navy, Fundy. And you want to march him directly into the busiest place this side of the capitol? Do you _want_ him to be recognized? There’s bound to be wanted posters.”

“No, of course not,” Eret says, backpedaling quickly. “But you can’t keep him locked up here forever, Will. Cut his hair or dye it blond or _something._ It won’t take much.”

“Don’t you _dare,_ ” George splutters, shrinking back, and Wilbur holds up a hand for order.

“Nobody is dying George’s hair,” he says in exasperation, “because he’s staying here. End of story.”

“Come on, Will,” Fundy complains, leaning forward to sling an arm around Wilbur’s shoulders. The Captain stiffens at the contact. “Lighten up a bit. The guy looks like he could use a drink or two.”

“Hey!”

“He really does,” Eret echoes, sounding thoughtful. “Fundy and I’ll watch him, Will, give you a bit of a break for once.”

Wilbur sighs, long and low, and presses a hand to his temple. “Fine,” he bites out. “Fine. But I want you back by sundown, d’you hear me? No getting involved with unsavory characters this time.”

“We would never,” Fundy says, dragging the words out with a grin that spells trouble.

But George feels his spirits lift at the prospect of a drink. He’s grown quite sick of the _L’manburg;_ it’ll be nice to have his feet on solid ground again after weeks of stumbling around on deck.

“Don’t get too excited,” Fundy warns as Wilbur stalks off in his usual grumpy fashion. He shoots George a glum look. “We still have to get you a disguise, buddy.”

So that’s how he ends up here, stalking through the docks wrapped in a cloak that hides his face, with hair dyed a temporary red thanks to a strange red powder Tommy had handed him earlier. “Mica powder,” he’d told George with a shit-eating grin as George stared at the little jar in horror. “Can’t wait to see you go ginger, big man, ‘s gonna be a shock—”

And George had promptly tuned him out.

His attention now is fractured by the sights and sounds around him. The port is _loud,_ for starters. George is taken aback by the sheer amount of people he sees on the docks, yelling and bartering and drinking. He scans the area, drinking it all in like a man dying of thirst. His eyes catch on a woman wearing an audacious yellow dress, tightly corseted; a man with four swords, two in each hand; a Navy sailor with the brim of his hat pulled way down low. George’s heart gives a jolt at the last one, but his shoulders loosen when he scans the soldier’s frame again and realizes that he is not, in fact, Dream.

Eret keeps George close to them, and he’s suddenly made aware of how short he is compared to the pirate. Eret keeps their hand on the holster of their pistol, eyes narrowed as they stalk through the crowd of people. It’s darker in these back alleyways; the sun can’t make it through the cracks between buildings, even though she tries desperately. The air is thick with the smell of alcohol and sex, lamps burning dimly every few feet, and it’s far too familiar to the sights of the capital that George shivers. Fundy follows the two of them, his steps soundless and his back tensed.

Once they’re away from the main docks, people around their little group mock them in the streets. Their eyes are glazed over from one drink too many, waving pints of beer around dangerously. Jeering laughter blends together in euphemisms and threats alike. Fundy and Eret are clearly practiced enough not to lose composure at some of the things they hear, backs ramrod straight and eyes averted. 

But George is not. He flushes when a woman wearing a dress that’s far too tight leans in to proposition him in sultry tones, running her fingers along his arm with a practiced gesture that makes him shiver.

Eret jerks George away from the woman, restraining themself enough not to punch her in the face. “Leave him alone,” they spit, and they stride ahead, dragging George with them. He struggles to keep up, blushing a deep red, and it’s only a moment before Eret catches sight of the tavern they’ve been looking for.

George follows the three pirates after a brief moment of hesitation, stepping through the door. The sign swinging above the entranceway reads _The Naughty Gull,_ with a crude depiction of a seagull in a position that should be anatomically impossible.

It’s loud and smoky in the tavern; George coughs a little as he moves through the crowd of people, pressing his handkerchief to his mouth in a vain attempt to breathe more freely.

“Grab a table,” Eret directs Fundy. “I’ll find us something to drink.”

“Something strong, please,” Fundy call over his shoulder as he leads George to the back of the tavern. “I can’t deal with the piss they serve here.”

“Hey,” George complains when Fundy nearly shoves him into the corner of the bar. He drops onto one of the seats with a huff before reclining against the wall. The wood is cool against his feverish skin, and he closes his eyes briefly before Fundy speaks again.

“You good, man?”

“Ask me again in about ten minutes,” George groans, resisting the urge to take a nap. He’s too tense to sleep now, though, completely on edge due to his unfamiliar surroundings. He wobbles a little instead, and when he opens his eyes again, Fundy’s grinning at him.

“It’s a lot, huh?”

“Yeah,” George huffs out, keeping a careful hand on the hilt of his sword, “just not a huge fan of the locals.”

“They’re okay,” Fundy says, looking pointedly across the room at a pair locked in a passionate embrace, “you’ve just got to know how to handle them.”

George senses that maybe this is a touchy subject. He opens his mouth to say something—maybe to apologize, maybe to reassure Fundy, maybe to ask a question—but before he can get the words out, Eret is back with three pints of ale.

They set the glasses down the table. “Drink up,” they say with a wicked grin. George takes the proffered drink and clinks it against Fundy’s, before taking a long swig that promptly leaves him spluttering for air.

“What’s the matter?” Fundy says, laughing as George chokes on the strong alcohol. “A little too strong for you?”

“Fuck off,” George says, still coughing as he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. “What the hell is this stuff?”

“Homebrewed,” Eret says, grinning. “A _Naughty Gull_ special, my friend.”

George pushes the drink away, grimacing. “I think I’ve had enough,” he says, and Eret takes the tumbler from him with mock pity. 

“More for me, then,” they say, before downing their first glass. George winces in sympathy.

“I saw you out on deck fighting with Techno the other day,” Fundy says conversationally. Eret grins again at the memory, and George sighs.

“Are you serious?”

“Really looked like you were having fun,” Fundy continues.

“If getting his ass handed to him for an hour counts as _fun_ ,” Eret says with a snort.

George kicks them underneath the table, causing Eret to wince. 

“Yeah, I think he spent more time on the deck than on his feet,” Fundy jokes. “Not too good with a sword, are you, Gogy?” He pronounces the nickname with wry disdain: _Goh-gee._

George bristles. “I—”

“To be fair,” Eret says, cutting him off as the two continue in the same vein, “it _was_ Technoblade.”

“I could take Technoblade,” says Fundy.

“I doubt it.”

“Say that to my face, you fucker,” Fundy exclaims, grinning despite himself.

“I just did!” Eret nearly shouts. Fundy says something incomprehensible under his breath, an insult that has Eret bristling. “What did you just call me?”

Their voices overlap as both pirates begin to shout at each other at once, faces twisted in identical expressions of incredulity. It’s too much for George—the oppressive air of the tavern, the noise around him, the heat on his face—and he abruptly pushes back into the wall, standing up. 

“I need some air,” George says hurriedly. “I’ll be right back.”

Eret and Fundy hardly notice, still locked in a fierce shouting match, so he slips away from the table and ducks out of the front door. It’s a relief to be back outside—the air is cooler, and he can finally breathe easier. His thoughts come clearer in the afternoon warmth. 

It strikes him, suddenly, that he’s alone in Port Topia. He has the whole world at his fingertips, dizzyingly bright. He could escape Wilbur’s clutches; Fundy and Eret are caught up in their own little world, words flying faster than fists ever could. Even if the crowds surrounding him aren’t exactly sympathetic to Schlatt, George is sure that he could find someone willing to help him find his way back to the capital.

He glances around, swallows thickly, and makes a split-second decision that he’s sure he’ll regret later.

Unfortunately, the alleyways all look the same when he darts into the first one. He promptly turns around in surprise, and then around again, and then curses himself—now every direction looks the same. Maybe if he’d kept his head on straight, he might have been able to navigate; now he’s just cursed to wander the streets until he finds someone to help him.

No time like the present. George sighs, sets his shoulders, and starts to walk.

He makes it through four alleys—two right turns, one left turn, and a junction where he thinks he does a complete one-eighty—before he chances upon someone. A group of men, to be precise; he nearly knocks over their leader in his haste. When he realizes that these men are much taller than him, he whitens a little.

“Good evening,” he says roughly, trying to brush it off, but the men shoot him a funny look. The group consists of a ginger and two blonds—the redhead is so tall it’s almost comical, towering over George at a height that makes Wilbur Soot look like a child. 

He belatedly realizes that they’re gathered around something, and his eyes are drawn inadvertently to their focus: several crappy posters stuck sloppily on the wall. The word _wanted_ sticks out in bold as George takes in the sketches. There’s a sketch of George himself, with a reward for his safe return advertised underneath it. The artistry is terrible, but it's not unrecognizable. _Fuck._

“You’re not from ‘round these parts,” the man says slowly, not quite a question. 

George feels his throat bob as he swallows, nodding. His eyes flick back to the posters, catching the familiar figures of Wilbur and Techno before he focuses on the fourth silhouette. At first, he thinks he’s seeing things—a poorly-drawn sketch of Dream gazes back at him impassively. 

Why the hell would _Dream_ have a bounty on his head?

“No,” he says shortly, attention jerking back to the men in front of him. “I’m not. If you’ll let me pass—”

George goes to step around the man, but he takes a step closer, boxing George in with a wicked sneer. The man glances at the poster that George is keenly trying to ignore, stuck to the wall with crappy adhesive, and then back at George. “You’re ‘im,” he says. “Red hair an’ all, but still.”

George swallows thickly, stepping back again when the man jerks his chin up. Behind him, the others straighten, aware of a fight brewing. “No, I’m not. You’ve got the wrong guy—”

“Royal brat,” the man spits at him, and George ducks the blow that comes his way in a haze of panic. His lessons with Techno are kicking in, now, and he mentally thanks the pirate (privateer, whatever) for being such a prick about it. “Thinkin’ you own everything ‘round these parts.”

George darts to the side, grabs the man’s arm, and shoves him against the wall. Before he can do anything else, however, the man’s ankle catches him around the shins and he lets out a muffled curse as he’s flipped, landing on his back with a huff of breath.

George gasps out, “I don’t—” as he tries to get up, but his words are cut off when the ginger aims a punch right at his stomach. It sends him reeling, choking on spit, and weakens him long enough for the first man to pull something sharp from its sheath and run him through.

Everything seems to stop for a moment, narrowing down to the razor-sharp pain of metal cutting through skin. It takes an enormous amount of effort, but George looks down at the blade that emerges from his side slick with blood, blinking in surprise. 

“That’ll teach ‘im,” the redhead hisses to his friend in victory. George feels suddenly woozy with the rush of adrenaline that follows, eyes defocusing, and he fights the impulse to crumple to the ground.

Not hard enough, it seems, because one moment he is standing and the next he is on his knees. Everything looks funny from this angle, George finds. He presses a hand to the wound on his side; his hand comes away sticky with blood, black to George’s vision. The memory of his dream from all those weeks ago comes back with a grimace, making him feel sick all over.

The sweet scent of _something_ hits his nose, and he visibly recoils, mind leaping from thought to thought so fast he feels like he might get whiplash. _Nightshade,_ George recalls from years of botany classes. _But why would there be nightshade_ here?

He gets his answer in the form of a wave of nausea that passes over him, so strong he can barely think straight. It takes him another few seconds to put two and two together. The blade must have been laced with poison—that’s why he feels so unsteady right now. 

“Here’s the thing, pretty boy,” one of the men sneers, crouching down at his side. George feels sharp fingers grip his jaw in a vise-like grip. “Your little poster says _dead or alive,_ and, well, you’re no use to us breathing.”

 _Fuck._ George thinks, _poison,_ and then, _oh, God,_ ** _poison_** _._ His thoughts go a little fuzzy for a moment—all he can think is help _come techno please please fundy eret wilbur anyone come help help_ ** _techno please_** on a steady loop, to the beat of his heart. The men who jumped him are laughing; George hears it as if he is underwater, echoey and disjointed.

The last thing he registers before his vision goes entirely black is a flash of pink hair and the shriek of metal. The men’s screams haunt him into unconsciousness.

* * *

Techno’s not exactly sure what makes him glance up from the money in his palm. He’s locked in the middle of negotiations with some idiot merchant, a man who thinks hearts of the sea are worth double what they actually are, when he feels a tugging in his chest akin to a fish hook lodged in skin. It’s irritating, but not painful; just a steady sense that something is terribly wrong.

“Do we have a deal?” the man coos once he realizes Techno’s concentration has broken. Techno curses himself for being so easy to read, irritation curling in his gut. He contents himself with thinking about how lovely this guy would look with a knife between his ribs.

“Two silver pieces or I’m leaving,” he says calmly, voice a little strained, instead of stabbing the trader like he really wants to.

The man scoffs. “Five!”

“Three.”

“Deal,” the man says, nodding sagely with a small, pleased smile. Clearly, he thinks he’s gotten the better end of the bargain here, even though Techno just tricked him into lowering his price. 

Money exchanges hands in the next few seconds. Techno tucks the heart away in his satchel, wrapped in a spare bit of cloth, and sets off to find out what the hell is bugging his conscience so much. He doesn’t have to look far—only a few alleyways away from the market, his ears pick up on jeering laughter. Techno melts into the shadows before he turns the next corner, stopping dead in his tracks at the sight that greets him.

His mind, hardwired for battle and quick analysis, catalog the scene in quick succession. One: George, hair dyed a ridiculously fake shade of red, with no weapon, cornered and lashing out like prey. Two: four men with many weapons shouting at him, laughing, clutching torn-up copies of wanted posters.

Crap. _Wanted posters?_

“Royal brat,” the leader spits, and then he mutters something else that Techno can’t quite make out. George looks like he’s about to piss himself, but he still juts his chin out and sets his jaw. Techno’s gotta give him some credit, at least.

The scuffle that results is unexpected, and Techno suppresses a grimace when he sees the man drive a small blade through George’s ribs. Pity. He hadn’t wanted to get involved. Knowing that a knife wound like that isn’t enough to incapacitate a grown man like George, Techno gears himself up to spring out from the shadows, pulling his sword from its sheath with a sharp shriek of metal. When the men’s heads snap in his direction, their faces go white almost instantly with recognition.

“It’s the Blade,” the man on the right says faintly, backing away. Techno scowls at the moniker. If he wasn’t in a bad mood already, he sure is now.

“Pick on someone your own size,” he says in a level voice, ignoring the insatiable pull of bloodshed as he hears George groan. Never let it be said that Technoblade can’t be a calm, reasonable man when he wants to be.

Of course, that pacifism only lasts as long as the ginger drops his weapon and scrambles away. Techno hates cowards almost as much as he hates government, so he hefts his sword in his grip. 

He makes short work of the remaining men, ignoring their screams as the weapon slices through bone, before he crumples to George’s side. His heart beats a little faster at the sight of George. He shouldn’t be passed out on the ground like this after a single knife wound.

 _Where the hell are Fundy and Eret?_ Techno had been watching, earlier, when Wilbur gave reluctant permission for George to visit port. He’d expected more than this. George’s chaperones, however, are nowhere to be found—probably blackout drunk in a tavern somewhere, Techno thinks in disdain. 

He sets about tending to the injury on George’s chest. The first red flag is that it _will_ _not stop bleeding._ The wound looks awful, even after Techno manages to treat it with the meager supplies in his bag. It shouldn’t be bleeding this much—dark red stains the layers of cloth he’d pressed to George’s chest. He winces and tears another strip of cloth from the bottom of his shirt before pressing it to the wound.

Clearly, George needs some sort of intensive care. Even if Techno managed to get him back to the _L’manburg_ before he bled out, there’s no guarantee that Niki could treat him in time. He’s going to have to find another option, and there’s only one man around these parts whose healing abilities Techno has complete faith in. 

Jesus. He’s going to regret this.

Grimacing, he leans down and grabs George. The other man is much smaller than Techno, but it still takes him several attempts to get George slung over his shoulders like a ragdoll.

It’s a dangerous game, carrying George through the dimly lit streets, but Techno manages it. His feet ache from the rough cobblestones, ankles twisting on the uneven ground. Soon enough, though, he’s out of Port Topia proper. The badly paved road turns into a dirt path that has Techno sighing in relief as he squints at the sunset.

Wilbur’s ultimatum nags at the back of his mind, and he lets out a small, dry chuckle. George will definitely _not_ be back on the _L’manburg_ in time for sunset. Ah, well. Eret and Fundy are in for it this time.

As Techno walks, leaving the busy port behind him, he keeps an eye out for the familiar cottage. The countryside sprawls in front of him—he catches sight of a few farms and several small, idyllic cottages before he finds the one he’s looking for: a small clapboard home with a few fields surrounding it. It makes nostalgia and familiarity rise in his throat like bile.

Soon enough, he’s at the front door. Taking a deep breath and steeling himself, Technoblade raises a fist and knocks sharply, two times in quick succession.

There’s a creak of floorboards accompanied by muffled voices. After a moment, the door swings open, revealing two figures standing in the doorway. It takes a moment for Techno’s eyes to adjust to the warm lamplight spilling out of the house, but when they do, he manages a small grin. “Good evening, folks.”

His father stares at him in clear disbelief, fist clenched around the door handle. At his shoulder, another man—a boy, really, probably around Tommy’s age—shifts his weight uneasily from foot to foot.

“Techno,” Philza Minecraft manages finally, sounding surprised. His eyes catch on George’s small frame, wound around Techno’s shoulders, and he frowns. “I—are you alright? What’s wrong?”

“Is that any way to treat a visitor?” Techno jokes, hating the strange tension in the air. He slowly lets George down until he’s cradling the other man in his arms, bridal style. He still looks far too pale. “I’m just kidding, by the way, this guy’s lost a lot of blood and you were the only option—”

Philza’s eyes harden and he straightens with a familiar sense of purpose. “Bring him in,” he says, no nonsense, before he disappears into the house. Techno obliges, brushing past the kid—Rupert? Randolph? Something like that; one of Phil’s newest charity cases—and following after Phil.

The next thirty minutes pass in a blur of motion and whispered words that Techno doesn’t quite catch. Phil is a flash of movement when he’s treating George; he has Techno set the older man down on a makeshift cot before shooing him away. With nowhere else to go while Phil works his magic, Techno ends up in the kitchen.

It’s familiar and far too suffocating, all at once. There are too many bad memories associated with these four walls; even though Techno has spent over half of his life in this house, it doesn’t feel like home. Not anymore.

Techno eyes the kid with scrutiny when he comes stumbling into the kitchen. He’s a tall one, long-limbed and skinny, with hair that falls into his eyes when he ducks his head. The kid avoids eye contact with Techno as he sets about making something, pulling ingredients from the cupboards at random.

Techno represses the urge to sigh when he realizes that the kitchen has been rearranged again since his last visit. _Classic Phil._ Always channeling his nervous energy into something productive and completely inane.

“What’s your name?” he ventures, and the kid jumps a mile.

“M-My name?”

“Well, I don’t see anyone else in here,” Techno says, trying for a light tone, but the words just come off depressing. “Not unless they’re hiding in the walls.”

“Uh—yeah,” the kid says, clearly unsure. “I’m Ranboo.” He pronounces it like _Rahn-boo,_ drawing out the first syllable. Techno tries it; it flows easily off his tongue, and he shoots the kid a small smile.

“Gotcha. How long have you been here, Ranboo?”

“Few months,” Ranboo admits. “Phil found me on the streets last winter and offered me a place to stay, ‘s long as I help him out with the healing stuff.”

Techno nods. “You any good?”

Ranboo starts, like he hadn’t expected the question. “Uh—I think so? Might wanna ask Phil about that, I don’t know, I haven’t exactly had to save anyone yet.”

Techno nods, and they lapse into uncomfortable silence. He has no idea what to say; what are teenagers into these days? If it were Tommy, he’d insult the kid; if it were Tubbo, he’d mention a random fact, some useless knowledge that would have Tubbo lighting up from the inside out. Ranboo, however, does not seem like he’d appreciate either of those things, so Techno elects to stay quiet until Phil calls him into the sitting room again.

“How is he?” Techno asks as he ducks around the doorframe, taking in Phil’s grave expression with trepidation.

“He should be alright,” Phil says. “You got him here in time. He’s lost a lot of blood, though, so he’s going to need a lot of rest.”

Techno nods, feeling the lump in his throat dissipate slightly. “Thank you,” he says, and he’s surprised to find that he means it.

Phil ducks his head. “Anytime,” he says, “though you’ve got to get a better excuse to visit than a dying royal.”

Techno tenses. “How do you—”

“His face is on those posters in town,” Phil remarks lightly, flitting around the room to organize several of the bookshelves. He doesn’t look back at Techno when he adds, “I trust you with whatever you’ve gotten mixed up in this time.”

Techno snorts. “One of Wilbur’s lost causes, of course,” he says, and Phil freezes at the mention of his pseudo-son, with his hand still outstretched to wipe the dust off a book.

Yeah—Phil and Wilbur aren't exactly on the best of terms right now, even after their years spent living together. Even if the four of them looked like the picture perfect family. Phil, Techno thinks, was always too concerned with Techno to give the other boy the attention he so desperately craved. Maybe that's why he'd run off with this fool's rebellion, embraced piracy with every fiber of his being.

Phil clears his throat. “That’s new.”

“Yeah,” Techno says, cracking a small, humorless smile. He reclines against the doorframe as Phil resumes his activity, the moment broken. “Tommy’s there, too. Not quite sure what their endgame is, but I’ll stick around for a bit.”

“Why don’t you come home?” Phil says lightly, glancing over at him with gentle eyes that betray his tone. There’s desperation hiding behind the sentiment. He sounds like he’s placating a wild animal, hands spread. Like Techno is a feral beast instead of his son, his _friend_. “We could use an extra set of hands on the farm.”

“Retirement doesn’t suit me,” Techno says, the words stiff. The truth is that he’d love nothing more than to settle down for once, to let himself relax into Philza and Ranboo’s strange dynamic. But he can’t abandon Wilbur and Tommy, his brothers in all but blood, even if Phil can. Even if Phil can justify only caring about one of his sons.

That train of thought is dangerous, so Techno glances over at the makeshift bed instead, surrounded by herbs and tinctures alike. It’s a proper mess in this room; he sighs at the telltale untidiness that betrays the panic and fragility of George’s state. The sight of George just lying there, unconscious, does something funny to Techno’s chest. 

He tears his eyes away from the bed, tensing as Phil presses a steaming mug of _something_ into his hand with a small smile. It smells good, whatever it is; the scent of herbs, spices, and meat curls around him like an old friend. Techno clutches it a little tighter. “Broth,” Phil clarifies when Techno arches a single eyebrow. “Ranboo’s quite a good cook, believe it or not.”

Techno nods—the motion sends his pink braid swinging—and drains the cup swiftly. It tastes fine to him, but the soup is probably too hot to drink, because it burns his throat as it goes down. “Needs more salt,” he rasps once he’s finished, just for old time’s sake.

Phil’s lips quirk into a quick grin. “You _would_ say that,” he comments dryly.

“‘S not my fault you refuse to eat anything with actual flavor, old man,” Techno says, embracing the familiar argument with gusto. 

“My tastebuds are just fine, thank you very much,” Phil says, and pauses as Techno sighs in mock betrayal. His eyes flick over to George again before he can stop himself. 

Phil follows his gaze with a knowing smile. “Don’tchu worry, mate,” he adds, nodding to George. “He’ll be right as rain come morning. Just a nasty case of poisoning, ‘s all.”

Techno blanches. “He was poisoned _?”_

“The blade was dipped in belladonna,” Phil corrects, a little too cheerfully for Techno’s taste. He steps lightly around Techno to check on George, pressing a hand to the other man’s forehead and frowning at the heat that meets it. “Nightshade, if you will. It’s a common enough poison ‘round these parts. Ranboo gave him a few remedies that should counteract its effects, I think—we’ll have to wait and see.”

Techno scoffs. “You _think_?”

“Healing takes time,” Phil says pointedly, shooting him a look. “And patience. Which is something you’d know if you ever bothered to take care of yourself.”

“Are you insinuatin’ that I have no care for my own well-being?” Techno drawls. “That’s kinda rude, actually, Phil. I’m _fine_.”

“When was the last time you had a proper meal, you dumbass?” Phil fusses, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I don’t know, when was the last time I visited?” Techno offers, somewhat jokingly. When Philza’s face darkens, Techno backpedals quickly. “Phil, Phil, I’m clearly joking, don’t look at me like that—”

“You’re impossible,” Phil sighs, shaking his head. “Why don’tchu head upstairs, rest for a bit? You look dead beat. Ranboo an’ I can handle George, make sure he’s okay long enough for you to grab a few hours’ rest.”

Techno frowns. His first instinct is to refuse the offer, to deflect with a pointed barb, but his second instinct immediately counteracts that. It’s been so long since he’s slept in a proper bed and not in a jerry-rigged hammock next to Tommy. 

The _L’manburg’s_ fine and all, but Tommy’s an awful sleeper—the kid’s practically an octopus. Though, to be fair, it’s not exactly _Tommy’s_ fault; he practically shouts in his sleep, twisting and turning, wracked by nightmares and terrors that he never shares with Techno. Techno doesn’t blame him—he never wants to discuss his nightmares either. A night in a soft bed, alone, with no one nearby except for Philza and Ranboo sounds like a great idea.

“Okay,” he says slowly, blinking down at Phil. “Okay, then.”

Phil covers his surprise well enough, with a hand to his mouth; he clearly hadn’t been expecting Techno to take him up on the offer. “Alright, then. There’s towels and extra blankets in the closet at the top of the stairs, and water in the kitchen if you want to wash, though I’m afraid it’s not hot. I’ll have Ranboo go and get more water from the well if you want a bath, though we’ll have to heat it up—”

“Phil, I’m perfectly capable of walking to the well and drawing water myself,” Techno drawls, amused despite himself. “And I’m fine. I don’t need hot water.”

“There was a letter for you, by the way,” Phil continues, not fazed in the slightest as he starts organizing the bottles on the shelf behind Techno. He doesn’t seem to see the way Techno’s shoulders stiffen at the words. “On the kitchen table. Not sure who it’s from, but it seems important, eh? Grab it on your way up.”

So with one final look over his shoulder at George—flushed and feverish, eyes closed under Phil’s knowing care—Techno sets off through the main hall, boards creaking underneath his boots. He tries to ignore the paintings on the walls, mocking smiles from his childhood that haunt him as he grabs the letter and heads upstairs.

Once he’s safely locked away in the guest room, he finally lets himself examine the letter. It’s clearly made of fine quality paper—the envelope feels rich and smooth underneath his fingers. It’s addressed to _Technoblade, c/o Philza Minecraft_ in curling lines of script.

When Techno turns it over, meaning to tear the letter open in a smooth motion, his throat closes up at the sight of the red wax stamp that greets him. It’s a very particular stamp—a royal seal, to be exact, one that makes his fists clench at his sides. 

But he opens the letter anyway. As his eyes scan the words and linger on the final lines of the letter, fingers brushing over the royal seal once more, his shoulders sag and he feels an awful trepidation worm its way through his limbs. He has his orders, and he doesn’t like them one bit. But good soldiers follow orders—Techno is little more than a pawn in this game, despite his hatred for Schlatt’s government, and he can do little more than obey. Schlatt has far too much dirt on him for Techno to consider the alternative. 

It’s why he moves continually; why he’s always alone, at the end of the day, forsaken by his family and friends; why he’s devoted himself to becoming little more than a _weapon,_ fierce and bloodthirsty. In their eyes, he’s just the Blade—someone to be used and then discarded in the same breath. 

So he presses a hand to the curling signature at the end of the letter, sighs, and resigns himself to his fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> techno pov techno pov techno p- *doctor doof voice* if i had a nickel for every time george passed out, i'd have..... two nickels. which isn't a lot but it's weird that it's happened twice, right?
> 
> also disclaimer that i don't know how knife wounds or poison or belladonna work. we are here for a good time not a medically or historically accurate time, so sue me /j
> 
> according to ao3 statistics, only 0.1% of people who read my fics actually leave kudos. so please hit the kudos button, it's free ~~and you can always change ur mind later~~ :P


	5. Renegade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dream comes closer than ever to finding George, Tommy finds himself cornered, and George starts to spiral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI HELLO HOPE YOU ARE ALL WELL <33 I HOPE YOU ENJOY THIS CHAPTER !!
> 
> small cw for vomiting - if u need to skip, it's after the second line break.

It’s a stroke of luck that they don’t capsize the ship in the first few days. 

Belatedly, Dream thinks that it might not have been the best idea to force Sapnap and Sam into close quarters together. The six of them are stuck sharing two tiny cabins, hammocks strung up between wooden beams. Between Sapnap’s propensity for fire and Sam’s ease with explosives, it’s a wonder they haven’t blown the ship to pieces yet.

Sam, at least, takes great care of his belongings. The ship they’d boarded—a small schooner named _Fran—_ is Sam’s pride and joy, evident in the care he takes every morning to buff the wheel with wood polish. Sapnap mocks him for it, but Sam just levels the other man with a deeply unsettled expression that almost always causes him to back off. The ship is a fine thing, worthy of Sam’s attention; her small prow cuts through the waves with a sharp precision that Dream admires.

He wouldn’t be caught dead saying it aloud, but he also finds himself admiring her captain. Sam works well with their little group. He’s an odd one, but they all have their quirks, so Dream doesn’t think too much of it.

“We need to find another port to stop at,” he tells Dream one morning as they stand at the ship’s railing, shielding their eyes from the bright sun. Bad and Ant are playing a game of cards on the other side of the deck, their voices carrying over on the wind. They’ve been on the seas nearly every night for the past two weeks now, trailing the _L’manburg_ through dozens of coastal towns, all to no avail. It’s a hard truth to swallow, but Wilbur is just too fast for them. “We’re running low on food.”

Dream straightens, frowning. “I thought we had enough for a month.”

“We did!” Karl yells across the deck from where he’s holding a pocket knife, carving a spare bit of wood with surprisingly nimble fingers. He’d opted out of the card game almost immediately, but he’s clearly still found a way to be involved. “Sapnap keeps having seconds!” 

Dream grimaces. “Of course he does,” he says listlessly. “Why do I even bother?”

Sam does not succeed in fighting a smile. “We should reach the nearest port in a day or so. The trail leads straight through there, anyway, so maybe you’ll get lucky and find your guy.”

“Maybe,” Dream repeats. He shoots Karl a look when the other man laughs and mutters something under his breath about _resolving that damn sexual tension._ “Get back to work, dumbass.”

Karl shoots him a wonky salute and keeps carving. Dream sighs.

True to Sam’s word, they arrive at the port the next night, just as the sun is dipping below the horizon. Dream watches as the sunset paints their surroundings in a watery grey light, reflecting off the choppy waves as the _Fran_ navigates through dangerous rock channels. 

Technically, most of these port towns are under Schlatt’s control, but there’s never been an extended Navy presence. The Empire simply does not have enough manpower to keep a guard on every town along the coastline. Dream knows the struggle firsthand—he was the one who signed papers approving the order.

Port Topia’s exterior looks rather charming as _Fran_ sails into the harbor, but Dream is far too aware of the rot at its core. He’s seen far too many places like this one in the past few years. The port is a wretched hive of scum and villainy, frequented by criminals and pirates alike. There’s only so much stucco-fronted buildings and colorful flags can hide.

Once the ship is tied up to the docks, Navy flags hidden away safely below deck, Sam divides the chores evenly, much to Dream’s relief; he’s glad to end up on terra firma again, even if he’ll inevitably spend more time stumbling around once the ground is solid beneath him. Dream tucks his mask into his satchel, making sure it’s at the bottom of his bag—he really doesn’t need to be recognized tonight. 

Dressed in a dark cloak and nondescript clothes, he steps off the boarding ramp with an air of trepidation clouding his thoughts as he and Sapnap find their way into the port town proper. Unfortunately, most of the merchants have closed up their stalls for the night. There’s still a crowd gathering on the main street, though, rowdy and probably drunk. 

Dream grimaces and follows Sapnap into the fray.

Suddenly, a flash of pink catches the corner of Dream’s eye, but when he twists around with blood thundering in his ears, there’s nothing there. He doesn’t know what he expected—a six-foot-three infamous privateer with bright pink hair, perhaps?—but the dock in question is deserted.

“You good?” Sapnap asks, nudging Dream lightly.

He shakes himself. “Yeah,” he says through a dry throat, “I’m good. Just thought I recognized someone.”

Sapnap surveys him with thinly-veiled concern. “Okay,” he says slowly, clearly unconvinced, before he moves off into the crowd again. Dream follows, feeling far too unsettled for comfort.

His attention is immediately drawn by several posters hung haphazardly on a nearby wall. Dream steps over to examine them, more out of habit than actual curiosity, but he freezes at some of the familiar names he sees.

Dream’s eyes first catch on the old posters, advertising rewards for the crew of the _L’manburg_ that Dream himself had signed. Underneath those posters, though, there’s a new set of bounties that haunt his vision. Names flash by in quick succession: _Former Commodore Sapnap. Former Grand Admiral Dream. Former Captain Awesamdude._

Badly-drawn sketches of him and his friends stare back at him, accompanying the words. Dream winces when he notes the _dead or alive_ clause, as well as the hefty sum promised for their return. Schlatt is not fucking around this time.

With a quick glance around, Dream pulls the posters from the wall and tears them into pieces, as small as he can manage. Sapnap watches, lips pressed into a thin line, but says nothing as Dream deposits the torn-up papers in his satchel and motions for them to continue onwards.

He’s not worried about being recognized—as long as he keeps the mask hidden away, no one knows what he looks like underneath it—but rather for his friends. He’s the one who dragged them into this, and it will be his fault if they’re hurt. 

They check a few taverns while Bad and Ant are off getting supplies. Dream makes sure they’re cautious, keeping his mask tucked away and his hood pulled up over his face. Each bar looks the same to Dream: a hazy, loud atmosphere that makes his fists clench and his focus go haywire. He’s grateful when Sapnap offers to speak to the bartenders, pinning Dream with a knowing look that grates on his nerves.

Unfortunately, there’s no sign of George—or the _L’manburg,_ either _._ As soon as they’d arrived, Dream had quickly scanned the harbor for her familiar flags and hand-lettered name, to no avail. It seems as though the pirates have vanished into thin air.

After the fourth tavern owner kicks them out with a pointed barb, Dream slumps against the cobblestones outside and lets out a long sigh. The fresh air does wonders for his headache. “He’s not here,” he says.

“You don’t know that.” Sapnap busies himself with a small piece of cardboard that, upon further inspection, appears to be a matchbook. Dream resists the instinctive urge to snatch the matches from his grasp; Sapnap and fire have always been a dangerous combination. “The next place might have more information.”

Dream manages a glare. “Do you really think they’re going to give it to us?” he asks pointedly, motioning at Sapnap's face. The other man is the most recognizable of the two; he's sure he saw a few people shoot glances at the former commodore. “We haven’t exactly been _subtle._ ”

Sapnap winces. “Good point. Come on, man, one more bar, okay? Then we’ll regroup with the other guys.”

Dream lets out a muffled string of curses, but he lets Sapnap pull him to his feet. The sun has gone down proper, now, and the only illumination they get is from the lamplights that line the narrow streets. It’s still scary; he doesn’t even want to think about what his chances would be in one of the nearby darkened alleyways.

This last tavern is different—less crowded, less smoky. Dream feels his senses sharpen as he stalks across the main room, scanning the patrons for any sign of George. There’s no luck, but his gaze catches on a figure in the corner of the room with three empty pint glasses stacked in front of them. It’s a strange sight for someone like this to be drinking alone, so Dream takes a step closer. Soon he’s standing in front of the table.

He sees the pirate eye him, and then Sapnap across the room. The sharp recognition that follows is almost tangible; their eyes light up like it’s Christmas come early, like this is the best possible outcome they could have asked for. Dream feels uneasiness settle in the pit of his stomach, heavy and unyielding.

“Gentleman,” the figure drawls, baring teeth in a grin, “do have a seat, won’t you?”

Dream remains standing. He feels Sapnap come up behind him, tensing as Dream says, “Who’s asking?”

“Ah, how could I forget my manners?” the pirate says. Their words have the same clipped accent to them as George’s do. They extend a hand, corners of their lips turning up a bit when they add, “I believe you know me as Eret.”

The name drags a sharp red line of recognition across Dream’s mind, darting from memory to memory—inky-blue coats, flames, a pair of sunglasses, and a teasing grin to boot. _Eret._ His simultaneous shock and recognition must show on his face, because Eret laughs, long and dark, and says, “You needn’t look so surprised, dear Admiral.”

“You’re with the _L’manburg_ ,” Sapnap grits out, looking similarly nonplussed. “What the hell have you guys done to George?”

“Nothing,” Eret says, and then adds, “yet.”

Dream doesn’t realize that he’s clenched his fists and taken a step closer until Eret flinches back. “What’s your deal?” he nearly growls, fear spiking in his gut. “Are you on Wilbur’s side or not?”

Eret just smiles that slow, sly grin. “I’m on his side,” they admit, drawing the words out. “Technically. But I could be convinced otherwise.” They level a long, deliberate look at Dream; it sends shivers down his spine in waves. “I suppose you catch my meaning.”

Dream exhales through his teeth. They’re dealing with just another pirate, rotten to the core. “I do.”

“Are you serious?” Sapnap mutters into Dream’s ear, scowling. His words are soft enough that Eret doesn’t seem to hear them. “You’re gonna let this _pirate_ boss you around?”

“They know where George is,” Dream whispers back, and even though Eret can’t possibly hear that, their lips quirk up in a semblance of a wicked grin. Dream decides quickly that he does not like Eret—the pirate is far too slippery for Dream’s comfort. 

He turns back to Eret, though, with renewed vigor. “Put your money where your mouth is,” Dream hisses through gritted teeth, despite the reservations that lie heavy in his gut. “Bring us to him.”

Eret, to their credit, only looks slightly fazed. “No can do, I’m afraid,” they hum, still smiling. Some of the fire fades from their eyes, however, at the mention of George. “I’m afraid he’s gone a bit AWOL at the moment.”

“You _lost_ him?!” Dream snaps, just as Sapnap shrieks “He escaped?!” at the exact same time.

“Yes, well,” Eret snaps with a grimace, “it’s my head on the chopping block once Will finds out. In for a penny and all that.”

“Where’s your friend?” Sapnap asks, scowling. When Eret shoots him a confused look, he nods to the third glass. “You’ve been busy, _Eret.”_ He spits the pirate’s name with no small amount of disdain.

Eret looks mollified. “You don’t have to worry about him,” they assure Sapnap.

“What kind of vague bullshit is that?” Sapnap complains. “How do we know you’re not double-crossing us, you asshole?”

Dream gives him a warning look before he clears his throat. “It’s a fair point,” he says. “How can you prove that you won’t just go running back to Wilbur at the first sign of trouble?”

A beat passes. Eret inhales sharply through their teeth.

“Well, this is suicide, innit?” they say finally. “If Will even catches wind of the fact that I’m talking to you, it’s over for me.”

“True,” Sapnap says offhandedly, staring at Eret like they’re a particularly tricky puzzle he’s trying to put back together. 

“So you’re offering us a chance to get to George,” Dream says slowly, steering the conversation back on track with a guiding hand, “but you also have no idea where George _is._ ” When Eret glares at him, he manages a tight smile. “Just clarifying.”

A beat. Eret manages a short nod. “I guess so,” they say. “Are you in or not?”

Dream exchanges a look with Sapnap. Their years of friendship allow him to read the creases in Sap’s face, the downturn of his lips, the anxiety that hides behind a confident veneer. Sapnap is just as scared as Dream is; he’s terrified for George’s fate, ready to sacrifice anything for his best friend.

So they come to a decision, both of them, without words.

“Fine,” Dream says, and he reaches out to shake Eret’s hand in a firm grip. “We’re in. Take us to the _L’manburg_ and you’ll be rewarded well.”

When Eret grins for the final time, their smile is a flash of sharp teeth. “Pleasure doing business with you, gents,” they drawl as they push the glasses away, standing up in a fluid motion oddly reminiscent of a cat.

Sapnap nods sharply. “Pleasure,” he says, voice all ice rather than his usual fire. Only a cold concern for George leaks through.

Swallowing thickly, Dream nods and tries to feel like he hasn’t just signed his own death warrant.

* * *

“Where the hell are they?”

Tommy winces as Wilbur’s tone, harsh and vindictive, cuts across the daydream he’s currently living in—something involving lots of treasure, girlfriends, and a sunny tropical island far away from here. He pushes the fantasy to the edge of his thoughts and shoots his captain a half-hearted glare. “What?”

“It’s sundown,” Wilbur says, even though that much is obvious. He doesn’t even look at Tommy; he’s too busy staring out at the horizon. The last rays of the sun catch his face, outlining the bags underneath his eyes and the too-sharp curve of his jaw. He has it set tightly, teeth grinding together like something is _really_ getting on his nerves.

Tommy doesn’t know why Will even bothers staring at the sunset night after night, especially since the sky is ugly as fuck—it’s stained the color of a particularly awful bruise, for God’s sake. It’s awful and sentimental and romantic and he’s sick of it. Even if it’s a tradition, it’s a stupid one.

He raises an eyebrow. “So?”

“Eret and Fundy should be back by now,” Wilbur grits out through his teeth. “With George.”

At the mention of Tommy’s favorite captive, his eyes light up—but Wilbur’s words trouble him. “George is missing?” he exclaims, but Wilbur is already pushing off from the railing and taking quick steps towards his cabin. Tommy struggles to keep up with Will’s long strides.

“I am going to _kill_ Fundy,” Wilbur says, sounding completely serious. He sighs, runs a hand through his hair so that it ruffles messily in the breeze. “Can you gather the crew for a meeting? I have a feeling something is going on here.”

Tommy gives him a sharp, sarcastic salute and hurries to oblige. Soon enough, everyone is gathered on deck. Tubbo stands at Tommy’s side as always, sure and steady—the lantern light glints off of their matching earrings.

When Will explains the situation to the crew, there are several shouts of outrage, which he quiets with a single glare. “Can it,” Wilbur orders, and everyone falls silent. “Is everyone here?”

Tommy glances around the group. There are only a few faces missing; realization makes his stomach do a flip-flop. “Where’s Techno?” he asks, once it becomes clear that nobody else is going to say anything. _Pussies._

Will blinks. “You’re telling me Techno’s not here?” He scans the surrounding faces, to no avail, before he curses. “Jesus fucking Christ, not him as well.”

Quackity blinks a little. “Technoblade’s gone?”

“Do you see him here, dipshit?” Tommy snaps, the panic making him antsy. He feels like he’s incredibly on edge—one wrong move might set him off tonight.

Big Q raises his hands in a classic _i’m-innocent_ gesture, motioning for Tommy to calm down. “It was just a question, you fucker.”

“Oi!” Tommy says, gearing up to fight—maybe to get a punch in, he needs to practice hand-to-hand combat sometime soon—but before he can do anything, Tubbo has a careful hand on his arm. It stops him from doing anything too rash, thankfully.

“Can it,” Will orders. Across the circle, Tommy watches Niki’s grip tighten around Quackity’s wrist in a similar warning. “We need to find Eret, Fundy, George, and now _Technoblade_ as soon as possible. Preferably before any of them are recognized and dragged in for questioning.”

“But we can’t stay here,” Tubbo says with a frown.

“Exactly. We have to leave soon,” Niki adds from the other side of the circle. She flushes under the sudden attention when everyone turns to face her. Tommy studies Niki briefly; the lantern illuminates her face, but the bags under her eyes look darker, more severe in the evening light. “If we stay here for too long, Dream is going to catch up sooner or later.”

“Let him,” Tommy hisses. He doesn’t miss the way Wilbur stiffens at the interjection. “I can take that blond bastard.” 

Quackity snorts. Tubbo rolls his eyes, nudging Tommy with an unfairly sharp elbow. _He’s getting faster,_ Tommy thinks, with no small amount of pride. Tubbo complains, “He tried to _execute_ you.”

“That was an unfair fight!” Tommy hurries to say, because it’s _true,_ goddamnit. “Didn’t count.”

“Looked pretty fair to me.”

Tommy snorts. “Dream cheated. Besides, you weren’t the one with a noose around your neck!”

Tubbo’s lips curl into a familiar scowl. “I literally helped break you out—”

“Boys, please,” Niki says tiredly, and they both shut their mouths with a _click._ Niki can be scary when she wants to be. With a hand pressed to his temple, Will shoots her an uncharacteristically soft, grateful look that makes Tommy want to throw up.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” his brother says after another moment of thoughtful silence. “Tommy, Tubbo, you’re coming with me. We’ll do a quick sweep of the port to see if there’s any sign of the guys or if, worst-case scenario, they’ve been captured.” His expression darkens ever so slightly at the thought. 

“You’re taking _Tommy_ to do that?” Niki says, sounding skeptical, so Tommy does the mature thing and sticks his tongue out at her. 

“She’s got a point, Tommy,” Tubbo says, rather calmly. “You haven’t got a subtle bone in your body.”

Even though he splutters in a shocked response, Tommy can’t argue with that. 

“Niki, I want you to lead the charge here,” Wilbur says, something soft in his voice. It’s sickening, the way Niki practically glows with pride. Tommy finds Tubbo’s gaze and makes a face, which has the other boy grinning. 

Will scowls. “Tommy, cut it out.”

He coos, sing-song, “Wilbur and Nihachu, sittin’ in a tree—”

_“Tommy!”_

After the plans have been made, Wilbur sets them into action easily. Niki is left onboard the _L’manburg,_ a watchful eye in case the four missing men decide to return at any time. The other crew members are tasked with preparations for their inevitable departure. The deck is a blur of chaos and motion when Wilbur decides it’s time to go; Tommy grumbles as he follows his brother and Tubbo down the gangplank into the fray of the docks. 

As night falls on Port Topia, the gas street lamps flicker to life, casting hazy shadows along cobbled streets. The streets are still packed with people; Tommy grimaces whenever he brushes past someone. He resists the urge to spit insults after them. Never let it be said that TommyInnit has no self-control.

“We should split up,” Tubbo remarks, far too nonchalantly, as the three of them step into an alleyway for a breath of quick conversation. Tommy thinks this is a shit idea and says so out loud, earning him a glare from his friend.

“I’m not letting you go into any taverns alone,” Wilbur says stubbornly. The younger boys groan.

“Come on, Will!” Tubbo coaxes, exchanging a look with Tommy. He sounds quite believable, Tommy thinks in amusement. “We won’t pull anything, it’s not like they’ll serve us anyway—”

“Yeah, ‘cos I’m a minor!” Tommy gets a kick out of pronouncing the last word carefully, biting the syllables out all wrong: _mine-ah_. Wilbur’s entire expression shutters at the familiar protest, which brings Tommy so much joy that he can hardly keep his expression serious.

“And you said you were going to let us have more—what was that word, Tommy?” Tubbo frowns as he wracks his brain. “Automaton? Auto—”

“Autonomy?” Tommy offers, stumbling over the syllables himself. 

“Yes!” Tubbo exclaims. “That one!” They both turn to Wilbur in unison, grinning; he looks between them once, twice, three times, and then sighs.

“That double act of yours is fucking creepy, you know that?” he says. “Fine. _Fine._ But if you lie about your age to drink even a _sip_ of alcohol, I will kill you and hide the body.”

“If his body’s gone, how will Tommy’s girlfriends mourn him?” Tubbo says woefully. Tommy snorts.

“He’s lying to you,” Wilbur says unhelpfully as he grabs them—Tommy by the scruff of his shirt and Tubbo by the shoulder—and maneuvers them back out into the crowd. “There are no girlfriends.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “Oi, fuck you—”

“Come on,” Wilbur orders, cutting Tommy off in that way only Wilbur can.“I don’t know about you, but I’d rather find these idiots before the Royal Navy does.”

“If they execute Fundy, can I have his hammock?” Tubbo asks cheerfully as they navigate through the docks. Tommy snorts, and Will starts in on a lecture about _not jinxing Fundy and Eret’s chances with dumb comments like that_. The conversation is something familiar, at least, and Tommy feels his mind relax as he settles into it—even if he’s still physically on edge at the danger that surrounds him.

Wilbur stops short outside a tavern that Tommy doesn’t recognize. “Here,” he says, voice hardened with something that Tommy can’t quite recognize. “Knock yourselves out.”

Tommy exchanges a look with Tubbo, unsettled by Wilbur’s sudden change in demeanor. Out loud, though, he says, “Oh, don’t worry, big man, we will.”

They split up—Tommy with Tubbo and Wilbur by himself, which probably isn’t the best idea, all things considered, but Tommy can’t bring himself to argue with his captain. Wilbur gives them a sharp nod and they give him a snappy salute and Tommy pretends that everything is alright.

It’s easy enough, these days, to lie to himself and pretend that there are no cracks in his relationship with Wilbur. Everything on board the _L’manburg_ looks picture-perfect from an outsider’s perspective, and he hopes to keep it that way.

The truth is, their rebellion is falling apart from the inside. Wilbur has wrapped himself up in visions of grandeur, of assassination attempts and war and _death._ Whenever Tommy tries to shake him out of it, he’s brushed off. His chest aches now with worry for Wilbur.

 _Wilbur_. His Captain, his friend, his brother—not in blood, of course, but in years spent underneath Phil’s roof with only Wilbur for company.

Tommy tears his mind away from _that_ particular train of thought with vigor. He does not want to think about Phil. “Come on,” he says to Tubbo, tension flickering through his voice like wildfire. “We’ve got some taverns to search.”

Tubbo’s grin turns mischievous. “I thought you’d never ask,” he drawls, tugging at his ear in a familiar gesture of friendship. In return, Tommy reaches up and grasps the matching earring in his own ear, grinning at Tubbo all the while. 

“Let’s go terrorize some innocent bartenders,” he says to Tubbo, whose resulting grin is so wide it brightens the street. “And find our guys, of course.”

“Fuck yeah!”

Unfortunately, there is no sign of their friends. Tommy and Tubbo check nearly a dozen taverns, ducking in through the door before they can be stopped and scanning the bar for their crewmates. At one point, Tommy thinks he sees Eret, but he blinks and the figure is gone—probably a trick of the light or something. 

It unsettles Tommy enough that he stumbles a little when they make it back out on the street. Tubbo grabs his arm to right him, giving Tommy a concerned look. The concern alone gives Tommy just enough confidence to speak his mind.

“D’you ever think Will is going a bit far with this?” Tommy says, a complete non sequitur. The words are unsteady and he’s not truly aware that they’ve left his mouth until Tubbo frowns at him.

“What do you mean?”

“With—with all _this_ ,” Tommy says, and he motions vaguely to the alleyway around them. “This rebellion and all that shit.”

Tubbo considers it. “Not really. Why—are you concerned?”

“‘m worried about him,” Tommy admits. He’s staring down at his feet as they walk. It’s much easier to speak these words aloud into the dark, ignoring the way Tubbo might react. “He hasn’t—he hasn’t been himself lately.”

Tubbo hums, noncommittal. “Yeah. I guess so. Since the execution thing, really.”

Tommy’s brows shoot up. “You’re right,” he says in surprise.

Tubbo's laughter is a bright sound in the night. “You’re _admitting_ that I’m right?”

Tomy scowls a little. “Don’t get used to it," he snaps, but there's no heat in the barb.

The conversation peters out, there, but Tommy throws himself into the search with a renewed vigor. These guys have to be _somewhere,_ right? They wouldn't just vanish into of thin air. (He ignores the fact that Techno has, in fact, done just that several times over the last few years).

Soon enough, an hour or two passes, and Tommy feels his limbs being dragged down by weariness. They stop for a quick glass of water and a few sips of rum, and Tubbo yawns at his side from their spot curled up against a tavern wall. It’s practically empty in here, now, even at three in the morning. The bartender just eyes the two teenagers before she shakes her head, clearly done with their shit. 

“I think that’s enough,” Tubbo says sleepily. He’s tucked into Tommy’s side, sitting on an upturned barrel that’s actually quite comfortable, all things considered. “We’ve searched everywhere and found nothing.”

Even though disappointment weighs heavy on his chest, Tommy finds himself nodding. He yawns, completely unintentionally, and practically stumbles off his barrel, striding towards the door as he tosses, “Come on, Tubbo, we have to get back, it’s nearly pitch black outside. Gods, Wilbur’ll be wondering where we went,” over his shoulder. He grasps the hilt of his sword with a familiar tenderness, goes to open the door— 

And freezes in his tracks when he feels cold metal trace its way across his Adam’s apple. 

The exhaustion is suddenly gone. Tommy’s chest constricts, then expands as a breath passes. Adrenaline spikes in his veins, but he can’t turn his head to identify his attacker without pressing the sword into his neck. Luckily, he doesn’t need to—the man speaks after a moment, pleased and arrogant in a way that rots Tommy’s teeth.

“Fancy seeing you here,” says the Grand Admiral cruelly from beside him. 

Tommy stiffens immediately at the familiar mocking tone and glances over to see the fading light draw a sharp line, from Dream’s cat-like smile to the blade at Tommy’s throat. When Dream shifts, the weapon glints dangerously. Tommy’s eyes widen and he stares back at the commodore like cornered prey.

_Fuck._

* * *

Everything hurts.

George feels as though he’s swimming through thick honey; his thoughts are sluggish and languid, stupidly confused. His head aches something fierce as his senses go haywire. When he tries to open his eyes, the light that meets him cuts a sharp line of pain across his pupils, so he returns to the darkness with a sigh of relief. 

Everything is so much better with his eyes closed. It heightens his other senses immediately—he’s suddenly cognizant of soft bedding against his fingers, the chirping of birds outside, voices murmuring somewhere in the distance. 

A creak of floorboards. The whine of a door’s hinges. A calloused hand slipping into George’s hair, tilting him up to meet the hot mouthful of broth that awaits him.

Is George sick? It would make sense—he feels like he’s in his old childhood bedroom. Any moment now, Dream is going to burst through his door in a panicked state, like he’d done so when they were children, and demand to see George.

He’d like to see Dream, George thinks idly.

There’s something about that thought that causes a discordant note to strike in his brain. He feels his stiff lips curve into a frown.

“That’s it,” says a voice he doesn’t recognize, even in this fevered and confused state. George relaxes into the touch and lets himself swallow. “Good lad. We’ll have you back on your feet in no time, eh?”

He hums, savoring the taste of soup. It cuts through the haze of pain and confusion ever so slightly, just enough so that he can crack his eyes open to make out a figure at his bedside.

“Is he awake?” When the other voice reaches George’s ears, it causes something to twist painfully in his gut. He _knows_ this voice.

And then George’s stupefied brain finally catches up to the fact that something is horribly wrong. His eyes fly open all the way, despite the pain that it causes, and he stares at Technoblade— _Technoblade,_ of all people—in horror.

“Steady on, there,” says the first voice cheerfully from his side, even as George scrambles back in bed. His chest aches something fierce; when he glances down, he’s surprised to find thick white bandages wrapped around it. “You’ll only hurt yourself again.”

“Where—I—What?” George’s tongue feels dry with disuse. He swallows and tries again. This time, fully-formed questions fall off his lips. “Technoblade? What are you doing here? Where—where even _am_ I? And who are you?” He directs this last part to the man sitting beside him, with patient eyes and bright blond hair.

The man sets down the mug on a nearby table, ceramic _clunking_ against wood, and he offers George a small smile. “Sorry, mate,” he says. “Must’ve given you quite a shock, there, eh?”

“Where am I?” George demands again. He feels like a broken record. “Who are you?”

“Philza Minecraft,” drawls Technoblade in that familiarly sardonic tone. It does nothing to settle George’s nerves. “Best healer for miles around. We’re still near Port Topia, though, don’tchu worry. Didn’t really have anywhere else to go after I saved you.” He scratches at the back of his neck, somewhat awkwardly. “You’re welcome for that, by the way,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

“Saved me?” George echoes. His memories of the day—night? _Week?_ He has no idea—before are a little fuzzy. He briefly remembers Port Topia, a tavern, spitting out his awful drink… and then the fight.

It all comes back in a rush. He gasps a little as the pain in his chest skyrockets, turning into a steady ache as George becomes aware that he’s been _stabbed,_ dear God. It must be some sort of weird placebo effect, because the man— _Philza_ , Technoblade had called him—shoots George a sympathetic look.

“There, now,” he says kindly. “It’s over. You’re safe. Techno carried you a fair way with that wound of yours—it wouldn’t have been serious otherwise, ‘cept for the fact that whoever got you used poison. Quite a bit of it, too.”

George remembers the sweet smell of poison in his nostrils and promptly feels sick. Philza must see it on his face, because he hastily grabs for a basin underneath the cot and holds it up in time for George to retch into the bowl, throwing up the contents of his stomach neatly. Clearly, the older man is used to this, holding George’s hair back with an almost fatherly tenderness.

Once George’s rapid-fire breaths have slowed and the broth feels like it might finally stay down, he lowers the basin away, giving Philza an apologetic look even as his throat burns with acid. “I’m sorry,” George croaks as the other man stands up to deal with the bowl.

“Don’t be,” is Philza’s reply, tossed over his shoulder like it costs nothing. “I’ll be right back. Techno, grab him something to drink and a few of those painkillers, won’t you? I’m sure he’s not feeling too hot right now.”

George is _definitely_ not feeling too hot right now. He eyes Technoblade with trepidation as the other man steps closer, carrying a glass of water and several homemade capsules that look dubious. Still, George takes the tablets, swallowing them dry before he takes a swig of water to wash them down.

“Techno, eh?” George manages through his still-dry lips after he’s taken a couple of sips. 

Technoblade shoots him a half-hearted glare. “Shut up and drink your goddamn water before Phil gets back,” he says gruffly, so George does, hiding his grin into the glass.

Philza comes back after a few minutes have passed, sporting a clean basin and a bright smile. “Did he take the tablets?” he asks Technoblade, who nods.

“What was in them?” George asks, mildly curious. He can already feel his headache subside, and the water has cleared the awful taste in his mouth a bit. He feels less shitty, overall.

“Something to counteract that poison,” Philza remarks as he sets about straightening the furniture in the small room. “And a few extra ingredients for pain. Don’t worry, nothing dangerous. I tested it on Techno first.”

“Against my will,” Technoblade mutters dryly. Phil ignores him.

George glances between the two men, his curiosity piqued. They clearly have history together; stories are stretched out like ropes between them, implied in their casual body language and the softness in their tone. _Phil. Techno._ The nicknames that fall easily off curved lips. There’s a gentle camaraderie between the two men, even if Technoblade seems rather closed off—a connection not easily broken. 

“How do you two know each other?” George asks, daring to voice his thoughts aloud. Buoyed by Philza’s gentle demeanor, he hazards a guess, adding, “Philza, are you Technoblade’s father?”

The tension in the air heightens at his question. Philza seems to curl into himself a little bit, eyes growing dark and lips setting in a firm line. Technoblade blinks, clenching his fists in a way that makes the bracelets on his arms rattle.

“Yes,” Philza says finally at the same exact moment that Techno bites out, “No,” through his teeth.

It goes so silent at the contradiction that George could hear a pin drop. Philza’s face whitens and Techno’s reddens, all at the same time.

George stiffens, and the movement causes a sharp wave of pain to take hold of his chest—he winces, shifting a little to clutch at the bandages. The noise breaks whatever strange spell has settled over the three of them; Techno flinches and looks away, muttering something underneath his breath before he ducks out of the room entirely. Phil just sighs like this is to be expected, even though there’s a glint of _something_ in his eyes that George doesn't quite like the look of.

“Gone to find Ranboo, I expect,” he says, as though that explains anything. There's a note of something heavy in his voice, but George still has no idea what he means. “Let’s get you sitting up. I gave you a few homemade things to speed up the healing, and the wound really wasn’t all that deep after I cleaned it—I bet you the poison and blood loss made it seem worse than it was—but I want to change those bandages anyway. We’re looking at a week, maybe ten days tops if you’re feeling particularly exhausted, but there’s still time for you to rest if you want.” 

George finds that Philza’s voice is oddly comforting as the other drones on about _herbs_ and _stitches_ and _stab wounds_ and _giving it time to heal._ The words blend together into comfortable white noise as George blinks, thoughts turning around and around in his brain like cogs in a machine. 

Philza wasn’t wrong; he _is_ exhausted. Beyond exhausted, actually—George’s limbs feel like dead weight. He thinks if closed his eyes right here and now, he’d fall asleep sitting up.

It’s not like anyone’s stopping him, though. Certainly not Philza, whose rambling words are quite clearly to assuage his own guilt in a matter that George has no business with. If Philza’s distracted with whatever had gone down between him and Techno earlier, he won’t notice if George closes his eyes for a moment, right? Just a moment.

Instant relief greets him as he slips his eyelids shut, darkness and _rest_ so overwhelming that George almost flops back on the pillows. He hums and lets his grip on reality slide until he’s practically floating, and the murmur of Phil’s voice—which is soon joined by the concerned timbre of a third voice, one George hasn’t heard before—guides him gently towards unconsciousness.

Still sitting up, he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t-t-tommy pov
> 
> dnf reunite next chapter,,,,, or do they?? you’ll have to wait n see <33
> 
> i struggled a bit with my interpretation of philza here, as i’m trying to focus more on his role as a healer and caretaker (of ranboo, sbi, techno, and now george) but also keep the whole “angel of death” part of his character intact. so pls let me know what u think. <33 see you all in a fortnight !!

**Author's Note:**

> this is your quick friendly reminder to be respectful to content creators regarding fanfiction!! donos, tweets, or any other ways of shoving fic in their faces are not okay :D
> 
> please check out the [spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3oD2Cyjbnsyvv7158S0Fni?si=AECXKgWnQRWdOya5lRtmjA) for this fic if you get a free moment!! love you guys <3


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